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Chapter II.
BAMBOROUGH FARM

At Cape Town Guy was met by his uncle, who had come down country to welcome him. The greeting was an affectionate one on both sides, for uncle and nephew were much attached to one another.

"My word, Guy," said Mr. Blakeney, as he shook his nephew by the hand, and looked him up and down, "you have grown since I saw you at home two years ago. What height are you now?"

"Five foot ten, uncle," returned Guy, smiling; "and my weight is eleven stone four. I don't want to grow any taller."

"Well, you're about tall enough," said Mr. Blakeney; "but I expect you'll put on another inch before you've done, and you're bound to be a twelve stone five man when you're full grown. I'm heartily glad to see you, and so will your aunt and cousins be when you reach Bamborough. As for Tom, he's dying to have a look at his cousin, of whom he has heard so much. By the way, my boy, I have to congratulate you on saving that girl from drowning at Tewkesbury in July last. Mr. Brimley-Fair told me about it in a letter shortly after, and sent me an account of it in a local paper. We're all very proud of you; and you are, I can see, like your father, a good plucked one. Mr. Brimley-Fair says you are pretty sure to get the Humane Society's medal later on, and indeed you deserve it after so gallant a feat."

"Please, uncle, don't say another word about it," said Guy, reddening at Mr. Blakeney's words. "I only did what any other fellow would have done. I was nearest to the girl, and you must remember I was already stripped-or nearly stripped-for rowing."

"Yes, I remember that, my boy," rejoined his uncle, with a kindly pat on the shoulder. "But I remember, too, that you had just had a very hard and exhausting struggle in the boat race you won, and were scarcely in fit condition to rescue people from drowning. Well, now, we'll get your luggage off the ship, drive up to the International Hotel, have some lunch, and then look about the town. I have some business in Cape Town which will keep me two or three days. During that time we'll have a look round, and you shall see what there is to be seen."

Mr. Blakeney was as good as his word. He showed Guy the sights of the old Dutch town, one of the most picturesque cities in the world. They drove round by the wonderful Victoria Drive, thence home by Wynberg and Rondebosch. At Wynberg they had a look at Great Constantia, the Government wine farm, a fine old Cape mansion, once the abode of the Cloete family. At Rondebosch they paid a visit to Groot Schuur, and Guy was shown the various trophies and curiosities of Mr. Rhodes's well-known mansion. Another day they went over the Kloof to Kamp's Bay; and on yet another they climbed the four thousand feet of Table Mountain, and from that magnificent altitude gazed over one of the grandest scapes by sea and land to be witnessed in any part of the world.

On the fifth day after Guy's arrival they took the up-country train, and after spending two days and nights on the rail, and passing Beaufort West, the Orange River, Kimberley, and Vryburg, reached Mafeking. During the journey Guy Hardcastle was never weary of gazing at the strange and varied scenery that unfolded itself before his eyes. He noted the wild mountain country through which they climbed before reaching the plateau of the Great Karroo. He watched the barren and seemingly illimitable vastness of the flat, red Karroo plains; saw wild springbucks and tame ostriches; and feasted his eyes on the huge chain of mountain, the magnificent Zwartberg, which for scores of leagues reared its mighty ramparts to the south of the plain country, until lost in the dim distance a hundred miles away to the eastward. He noted, too, the extraordinary clearness of the atmosphere. Hills and mountains that were, as his uncle assured him, forty or fifty miles away, appeared in this sparkling and translucent atmosphere little more than a dozen or fifteen miles distant.

"Yes, Guy," added his uncle, "you'll find this clearness of the atmosphere rather troublesome at first, when you begin rifle-shooting. The game on the plains are much farther off than newcomers can believe; and the consequence is that, until they get used to our conditions of light and atmosphere, sportsmen fresh to the country invariably underestimate their distances, and fire far short of the buck, or whatever it may be they are aiming at. By the way, have you ever fired a rifle?"

"Yes," replied the boy quietly, "I have had some practice with the Martini-Henry at butts, and did pretty well for a beginner; and, as you know, I've used a shot-gun ever since I was twelve years old. I began with small birds and rabbits; two years ago I shot partridge with father-he was home that autumn; and last year I was grouse-shooting with our cousins, the Forsters, in Northumberland.

"By the way, uncle," he went on, "I've brought out a sporting Martini-Henry rifle, as you told me. That and the ammunition are packed up in the long case with my saddlery and the rest of my outfit. Here's my shot-gun," he continued, taking down a gun-case from the rack above, undoing it, and extracting from it a handsome double-barrel. "It's a beauty, isn't it? Father gave it me two years ago on my birthday. It's a 'Cogswell and Harrison,' and a first-rate shooter."

Mr. Blakeney was a keen sportsman, and naturally took an interest in every kind of firearm. He took the gun, which Guy had meanwhile put together, examined it carefully, handled it, balanced it, and standing up in the first-class carriage, which they had to themselves, put it up to his shoulder two or three times.

"Yes, it's a very pretty gun, well built and finished, Guy," he remarked. "You'll have plenty of opportunity of using it at Bamborough. We have lots of feathered game: partridges, pheasants (both of them a kind of francolin), koorhaan-that is, bustards-of various kinds, and numbers of wild guinea-fowl. Then there are plover, "dikkop," and so forth; sand-grouse, wild fowl, when the rains fall and the pans and vleis are full, and various other odds and ends."

"My word, uncle," said Guy eagerly, "this is splendid news. I'm especially fond of bird-shooting, and I had no idea you had all this variety."

Meantime, Mr. Blakeney had in his turn been looking for a gun-case, which he extracted, after no little trouble, from under the seat. He took out his keys, opened the case, and quickly put together a light small-bore sporting rifle.

"Here's a little surprise I had in store for you, Guy," he said. "We have a deal of time to put in on this journey, and I may as well make the best of it. This is one of the newest small-bore magazine rifles, a sporting Mannlicher, which an old friend of mine, who has tested it, tells me is the best weapon he knows for all kinds of buck up to a hartebeest or koodoo, or even an eland. I sent down to George Rawbone of Cape Town to get it out from England for me. Tom and I each have a Lee-Metford .303 sporting rifle. This, I believe, is even better. It's from Holland and Holland in Bond Street, and it ought to be a good one. There you are, my boy," he added, putting it into his nephew's hands. "I hope you'll like it, and will shoot many a head of game with it. I've got plenty of ammunition for you."

Guy's face had lit up with pleasure as his uncle handed him the weapon.

"It's awfully good of you, uncle," he said; "I can't thank you enough. It's a lovely rifle," he continued, as he handled the weapon and tried the mechanism. "If I can't shoot with that, I deserve to be shot myself. I've heard one of our fellows talk of the Mannlicher. His father shoots red deer with it in Scotland, and he says it's a splendid rifle. I'm afraid my Martini-Henry, with its black powder, will have its nose rather put out of joint by this beauty."

"No, I don't think so," replied his uncle. "You will find the Martini still a very useful rifle, although, compared with the new smokeless powder weapons, it produces a lot of smoke, makes a big noise, and has a nasty kick. Some day, when you go into the hunting veldt, you will find it a very good second rifle in reserve; and it's always well to have a spare arm in case anything goes wrong with your first choice and favourite. The Martini bullet delivers a heavy, smashing blow; and I'm not sure whether for lion, leopard, and elephant, and giraffe and the heavier game, I should not still prefer it."

They presently crossed the Orange River, and passed into Griqualand West. Kimberley was reached and left behind; in no great while they passed Fourteen Streams, and entered the rolling grass-veldt country of British Bechuanaland. Vryburg, the little capital of this colony, was presently left behind; and, a hundred miles farther north, they alighted, after their long journey, at Mafeking. Here they stayed the night at Dixon's Hotel.

Mafeking still showed some faint remnants of the excitement which had overtaken it when, some ten months earlier, Dr. Jameson and his raiders had marched from that neighbourhood on their madcap and ill-starred attempt upon the Transvaal. That evening, after dinner, Guy heard occasional references to that period, which interested him not a little. He saw, too, for the first time, some Transvaal Boers, who were in the town selling stock and buying various things that they required. Guy watched these men with a curious and a critical eye. So these were the people with whom England for a hundred years had had so much trouble and so many difficulties. As he watched the big burly fellows-slack and loose-limbed and clumsy they seemed to him, with their rough corduroy clothes, loose trousers, short jackets, slouch hats, great beards, and generally unkempt appearance-it was hard to realize that these were the men who had defeated British troops at Majuba Hill, Laing's Nek, and other places.

He listened to their thick guttural language with astonished interest.

"What a strange lingo," he said to his uncle quietly, after the latter had been discussing cattle and crops with some of the Transvaalers.

"Yes," replied Mr. Blakeney, "it's a queer patois till you get accustomed to it. But you'll have to pick it up, uncouth as it sounds. One can hardly get on in this country without it. All the natives who work for Europeans speak it; and what with transport-riders and Dutch farmers all over the place-most of whom can hardly speak a word of English-one finds it absolutely necessary to acquire Boer Dutch."

"All right, uncle," said Guy, with his usual keenness, "I'll begin as soon as you like."

"Very well," rejoined Mr. Blakeney; "Tom and I will be your tutors. You will not be long before you pick up a fair colloquial knowledge of the language. After all, many of the words are practically identical with much of our Lowland Scotch. Kist, the word for chest, for example, is identical with the Scottish word. Lang stands for long in both countries. Kloof, a ravine, is the same as the Lowland cleugh. Pat means path or road, and so on. Their word spoor, which means tracks or footprints, is identical with an old-fashioned provincial word still in use in England. Otter hunters, for example, often call it the spur of an otter, when they see the prints of these animals in the smooth mud or sand of a riverside."

Mr. Blakeney had had his Cape cart and four horses sent in to meet them, and next morning at dawn they started on the forty-mile drive south-westward which was to land them at Bamborough Farm. Taking with them their gunnery and some ammunition, as well as Mr. Blakeney's and Guy's portmanteaus, they left behind the rest of Guy's kit and impedimenta, which were to be sent on, with some goods and farm implements, by ox-wagon. Having driven for some two and a half hours, they outspanned for breakfast. Peetsi, Mr. Blakeney's Bechuana groom, quickly collected some thorn wood and made a fire; they cooked a kettle of coffee, fried some tinned sausages in a tiny saucepan, got out bread, butter, and a tin of marmalade, and made an excellent meal. Never, thought Guy, had he enjoyed a breakfast so much. Meanwhile the horses, on being unharnessed, had indulged in the invariable roll which all Cape nags make a point of on being off-saddled or outspanned, and were knee-haltered. This operation was closely observed by Guy, at his uncle's suggestion. It is an extremely useful one, which any newcomer to the South African veldt ought to make himself master of. Knee-haltered, the horse can graze comfortably, yet cannot wander far away. Guy watched Peetsi's operations, and then, after one or two vain attempts, secured two of the horses himself.

"Well done, Guy!" said his uncle approvingly. "Nothing like picking up these things as soon as possible. You'll do, I can see. Once a man learns how to knee-halter a nag, he never forgets it. It's like running or skating, or riding or dancing-once mastered, never forgotten."

The horses were given a feed of forage, which consists of the ears and stalks of oats cut up and eaten together-"oat-hay" some people call it-and then grazed for half an hour in the long grass veldt. The sun was becoming hot, and the travellers now doffed their coats and went, as most people do up-country, in their shirt sleeves.

Presently they inspanned again and drove off. Now they were approaching a belt of charming forest country, low, spreading, umbrella-shaped giraffe-acacia timber, planted by nature not too thickly together. Everywhere among these trees grew the tall, pale, yellow veldt grass, and pleasant vistas and open glades here and there greeted the eye. Amid these trees fluttered occasionally queer, bizarre-looking hornbills, and brilliant rollers, miscalled "blue-jays" by the colonists, blazing in lovely plumage of many hues-blues, lilacs, purples, and greens. For an hour they drove through this pleasant country, and then emerged upon the dry, rolling grass plains once more. Half an hour later they approached a small shallow valley, through which ran the dry bed of a periodical stream. Along the banks of this dry stream grew a fringe of thorn bush, the common doom boom, or thorny acacia. Suddenly Mr. Blakeney pulled up his team.

"Sh!" he said in a low tone, handing the reins to Guy, and reaching out the Mannlicher, which now stood against the seat behind him. "Follow the line of bush yonder," he continued, pointing with his right hand. "Do you see anything?"

"Yes," replied Guy; "I see a big bird. What is it?"

"That's a paauw, my boy," answered his uncle; "our biggest bustard. You must have a try for him."

Taking some cartridges from a bandolier that hung at the side of the cart, Mr. Blakeney filled the magazine clip and pushed it into its place. Then he worked a cartridge into the breech.

"Now, Guy," he went on, "jump down there, creep up behind that bush, and try for a shot. You know the mechanism. If you miss with the first, have a blaze with your second cartridge. You won't get nearer than a hundred yards. Take your time, and don't hurry your shot."

Guy slipped down quietly, and, stooping low, crept towards the bush his uncle had pointed out. The paauw still fed quietly along the spruit: it was some two hundred and fifty yards from the cart, and the cunning creature, judging the distance to a nicety, esteemed itself quite secure. But, meanwhile, the eager lad with the Mannlicher was creeping up, the wind was right, and it seemed that he might attain his vantage-ground without the alert bird becoming aware of him. Now he is within forty yards of the bush, now thirty, now ten. He is there. Cautiously peering through the leafy screen, and dropping on to his right knee, he takes steady aim and fires.

The report of the Mannlicher was a light one, and its smoke very trifling. The big bird staggered to the shot, half lifted its wings, ran fifteen paces, and then dropped to the veldt dead. A shout of triumph rang out from Mr. Blakeney's lips.

"Bravo! bravo! my boy," he cried in stentorian tones. "You've done the trick beautifully."

Long before the words were out of his uncle's mouth, Guy, scarcely able to contain his exultation at this his first success, threw his hat into the air, leaped out of the bush, and ran like a deer up to the dead bustard. He picked it up-it seemed enormously heavy-and held it up in triumph. Then turning he walked swiftly back towards the cart. His uncle met him at the bush, clapped him on the back, and said heartily, -

"Well hit, Guy! A first-rate shot. I can see you don't want much coaching in the art of rifle-shooting. It isn't every day we get a paauw."

He took the great bird from the lad, and, holding it out, tested its weight. "He's a beauty," he went on; "fat, and in high condition. Can't weigh less than thirty pounds. Handsome bird, isn't he? Look at his crest. That's the biggest and finest bustard in the world-kori the Bechuanas call him.

"Now let us pace the distance," he continued.

They paced it from the bush to the spot where the bird had been hit. Just one hundred and five yards it was, at a rough computation.

"A good shot, Guy," repeated his uncle. "And you kept your head and didn't hurry it. Well, we shall dine excellently. Your aunt and cousins will be as pleased as Punch to see that paauw; it's by far the best eating of any game-bird in Africa."

They reached the cart again. Peetsi, with beaming face, exclaimed in smooth Bechuana at the kori, and fastened the great bird up at the back of the cart, under the shade of the hood. Then they resumed their journey. Half an hour farther on, Mr. Blakeney got down from the cart, shot-gun in hand this time. He had noticed a koorhaan, one of the lesser bustards, go down at a certain spot in the veldt on the left-hand side of the road. In approaching the place where the bird lay concealed, he executed a circling movement. Smaller and smaller became the circle, and then, suddenly, without a cry of warning, a biggish bird flushed from the long grass and flew off. In an instant the sportsman's gun was at his shoulder. Then came the crisp report of a Schultz cartridge, and the bird instantly fell to the shot. Mr. Blakeney walked forward to pick it up. As he did so a second bird, the hen, rose almost from under his feet. Giving her twenty-five yards law, again the gunner pulled the trigger, and the second game-bird hit the earth. It was a pretty scene-the wide yellow plain; the gunner standing knee deep in grass; the stricken bird, outlined clear against the hot sky. Giving the reins to Peetsi once more, Guy sprang out of the cart and ran to meet his uncle.

"Well, that was a pretty bit of shooting, uncle!" he cried joyfully. "I'm glad I saw it. I shall know what to do when I see a koorhaan go down and squat as that one did."

"That's a blue-necked koorhaan," answered his uncle; "one of our most beautiful bustards. Look at its lovely colouring and plumage-the bright rufous back, marked with black; the bluish tinge on the neck; and the tints, rufous, ash-colour, white and black, of the head and neck. And how splendidly the black wing feathers and the white underparts contrast with the rest of the plumage."

Guy took the two birds, which were each about the size of a blackcock, and walked with his uncle back to the cart. They drove on now, with a couple more outspans to rest the horses, until at length, turning a corner of some bush, Mr. Blakeney suddenly pointed with his whip and said, "There's Bamborough!"

Guy looked, and saw at the top of a gentle slope, which rose above a well-bushed river valley, a long, low, square-built house, having a raised veranda, or stoep as it is called in South Africa, running all round it. In a mile they had crossed the dry river-bed, ascended the slope, and driven up to the place. It was just upon two o'clock. Mrs. Blakeney, a pleasant, comely-looking matron, came out of the house, and greeted her nephew so soon as he descended. She had not seen him since he was a small child.

"Of course, I should not have known you, Guy," she said. "What a giant you have grown! I shall be very proud of my good-looking nephew."

Then the cousins had to be introduced-Tom, the eldest boy, a fine-looking lad of eighteen, like his father, lean, dark, and wiry; two pretty, fresh-looking girls of fifteen and thirteen, Ella and Marjory; and Arthur, the youngest of the group, a sharp-looking boy of eleven. The greetings over, Mrs. Blakeney took them at once into dinner, which she had kept back, trusting to her husband's invariable speed and punctuality, even on a forty-mile drive.

In the afternoon they sauntered round the place, and Guy was shown everything there was to be seen. Bamborough was a typical South African homestead of the better sort. It consisted of a large single-story building, thatched by natives with grass, the exterior rough-cast and white-washed. There were ten good-sized rooms, which served for all the needs of the family and left a couple of spare beds for those not infrequent occasions when visitors or wayfarers turned up. A governess, who resided with the family, looked after the education of the girls and Arthur. Tom, who had just finished his schooling at Grahamstown, in Cape Colony, was now home for good. His father, who farmed twelve thousand morgen of land, or rather more than twenty-four thousand acres, needed assistance, and was glad to have his son about with him. Tom knew a good deal of the mysteries of stock-farming already, and was, his father declared, almost as good a judge of an ox as he was himself. A first-rate rider, a good shot, and a keen sportsman, Tom was just the kind of cousin Guy had hoped for. The two, who had many points in common, quickly understood one another, and struck up a strong friendship.

Guy was shown everything-the trellised vine, leading from the front door to the gate; the fruit orchard at the side of the house, in which grew peaches, apricots, nectarines, quinces, apples, and pears; the orange trees down by the "lands," where the arable crops, oats and mealies, were grown; the stables and compounds; the cattle and goat kraals; and the ostrich camp, a vast enclosure, where stalked a number of these great birds. He was shown the deep-bore well and windmill pump, which supplied the station with water; the big dam, which looked like a lake, with its fringe of willow and blue gums; and many other things pertaining to the headquarters of a large South African cattle ranch. Altogether, what with the morning drive, the meeting with his new cousins, and the long afternoon of sightseeing, Guy was not sorry for bed at ten o'clock. His head had not been two minutes on the snow-white pillow, scented like the rest of the spotless bed linen with some fragrant veldt herb, before he was sound asleep.