"On the chin--while 'e was waggin' it at me."
"What is 'e? 'Nother Colonial rebel to be 'orribly disenfranchised, or a
Cape Minister, or only a loyal farmer with dynamite in both boots. Tell us
all about it, Burjer!"
"You leave my prisoner alone," said Private Copper. "'E's 'ad losses an'
trouble; an' it's in the family too. 'E thought I never read the papers,
so 'e kindly lent me his very own _Jerrold's Weekly_--an' 'e explained it
to me as patronisin' as a--as a militia subaltern doin' Railway Staff
Officer. 'E's a left-over from Majuba--one of the worst kind, an' 'earin'
the evidence as I did, I don't exactly blame 'im. It was this way."
To the picket Private Copper held forth for ten minutes on the life-
history of his captive. Allowing for some purple patches, it was an
absolute fair rendering.
"But what I dis-liked was this baccy-priggin' beggar, 'oo's people, on 'is
own showin', couldn't 'ave been more than thirty or forty years in the
coun--on this Gawd-forsaken dust-'eap, comin' the squire over me. They're
all parsons--we know _that_, but parson _an'_ squire is a bit too thick
for Alf Copper. Why, I caught 'im in the shameful act of tryin' to start a
aristocracy on a gun an' a wagon an' a _shambuk_! Yes; that's what it was:
a bloomin' aristocracy."
"No, it weren't," said McBride, at length, on the dirt, above the
purloined weekly. "You're the aristocrat, Alf.
Pages:
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172