two lines of white teeth gleamed like polished ivory
in the sunlight, his small eyes all shot with blood and his face working
convulsively, was the Hottentot Jantje. Nor was this all. Across his
face was a blue wheal where the whip had fallen, and in his hand a heavy
white-handled knife which he always carried.

"Hullo! what is all this?" said John, shouldering his way through the
crowd.

"The _swartsel_ (black creature) has stolen my horse's forage, and given
it to yours!" shouted Muller, who was evidently almost off his head with
rage, making an attempt to hit Jantje with the whip as he spoke. The
latter avoided the blow by jumping behind John, with the result that the
tip of the _sjambock_ caught the Englishman on the leg.

"Be careful, sir, with that whip," said John to Muller, restraining his
temper with difficulty. "Now, how do you know that the man stole your
horse's forage; and what business have you to touch him? If there was
anything wrong, you should have reported it to me."

"He lies, Baas, he lies!" yelled out the Hottentot in tremulous,
high-pitched tones. "He lies; he has always been a liar, and worse than
a liar. Yah! yah! I can tell things about him. The land is English now,
and Boers can't kill the black people as they like. That man--that
Boer, Muller, he shot my father and my mother--my father first, then my
mother; he gave her two bullets--she did not die the first time."

"You yellow devil!--You black-skinned, black-hearted, lying son of
Satan!" roared the great Boer, his very beard curling with fury.
"Is that the way you talk to your masters? Out of the light,
_rooibaatje_"--this was to John--"and I will cut his tongue out of him.
I'll show him how we deal with a yellow liar;" and without further ado
he made a rush for the Hottentot.

As he came, John, whose blood was now thoroughly up, put out his open
hand, and, bending forward, pushed with all his strength on Muller's
advancing chest. John was a very powerfully made man, though not a large
one, and the push sent Muller staggering back.

"What do you mean by that, _rooibaatje?_" shouted Muller, his face livid
with fury. "Get out of my road or I will mark that pretty face of yours.
I owe you for some goods as it is, Englishman, and I always pay
my debts. Out of the path, curse you!" and he again rushed for the
Hottentot.

This time John, who was now almost as angry as his assailant, did not
wait for the man to reach him, but, springing