CHAPTER XI
THE STORM
Hans Schafen met his master on the boundary of Blue Hill Farm with
a drawn face. Things were going from bad to worse. The drought
was killing the animals like flies. If the rain did not come soon,
there would be none left. He made his report to Burke with a
precision that did not hide his despair. Matters had never before
looked so serious. The dearth of water had begun to spell disaster.
Burke listened with scarcely a comment. Blue Hill Farm was on
rising ground, and there had always been this danger in view. But
till this season it had never materialized to any alarming extent.
His position had often enough been precarious, but his losses had
never been overwhelming. The failure of the dam at Ritter Spruit
had been a catastrophe more far reaching than at the time he had
realized. It had crippled the resources of the farm, and flung him
upon the chances of the weather. He was faced with ruin.
He heard Schafen out with no sign of consternation, and when he had
ended he drove on to the farm and stabled his horses himself with
his usual care. Then he went into his empty bungalow. . .
Slowly the long hours wore away. The sun rose in its strength,
shining through a thick haze that was like the smoke from a
furnace. The atmosphere grew close and suffocating. An intense
stillness reigned without, broken occasionally by the despairing
bleating of thirst-stricken sheep.
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