Chapter 25 | Duke's Find | Diamond Dyke

Dyke had not far to go—the dog running on and looking back from time to time to see if it was followed, and then going on again. “He has found a snake, perhaps,” thought Dyke, as he looked in every direction, but could see no sign of the bullocks. Duke went on.

“Here! I want to get back with these birds, old fellow,” cried Dyke at last. “Come along back.”

But the dog stood fast, and began to bark; then plunged in amongst some milk-bush, and barked louder than ever.

“Well, I must see what he has found,” thought Dyke, and just as it was getting dark, he ran on the hundred yards which separated him from the dog, and found him in a state of great excitement.

“Now then, stupid, what is it?” cried Dyke. “I shan’t go any farther, mind.—Why, hullo! old chap, what have you got? Why, they’re lion cubs!”

Sure enough they were; a pair of big, chubby, whimpering cubs, that in their heavy way resembled puppies more than creatures of the cat family.

“Here, come away,” cried Dyke, after kneeling down to examine the stupid-looking, tawny things, “We shall make the mother feel as fierce as can be, and there’ll be no mercy for us then, old chap. But how in the world did they come to be here? Their mother must be prowling about the place, and— Oh, I see,” he cried, as the light came. “It was their mother I shot, and the poor little creatures are starving. It would be a mercy to kill them.”

But the cubs whimpered and whined, and seemed so amiable, that Dyke felt as if he could not be merciful in that way.

“Seems stupid,” he muttered, “but I can’t go murdering things without there’s a good reason for it.”

Slinging his gun over his back, he took a piece of leathern thong from his pocket and tied the legs of his birds together, noticing that, as he did so, Duke was poking the young lions about with his nose, and the fat little creatures, which were about a third of his size, were snuggling up to him for comfort, whining like puppies the while.

“Here, Duke!” he cried; “carry.”

He slung the birds on either side of the dog’s neck, and then stooping down, picked up the fat, heavy cubs, tucked one under each arm, where they nestled to him, and then started for home.

“Nice position for me if I’m wrong,” he muttered. “Suppose their mother isn’t dead, and she finds me stealing her young ones. Ugh!”

But he was not wrong, and soon after entered the house with his prizes, to find Emson awake and watching him; while Tanta Sal crouched on the floor, gazing at the lamp which she had lit and seemed to admire intensely.

“How are you?” was Dyke’s first question, and on being assured in a faint echo of a voice that his brother was better, he handed two of the birds to the woman to take and stew down at once.

“Take lion’s babies too?” she said, shaking her head severely. “Not good eat.”

“Who wants to eat them?” said Dyke. “No: I’m going to keep them. Come, make haste. I want to see those birds cooking into soup.”

“Soup? Ooomps. Tant know make tea—coffee—dinner.”

“No, no; soup.”

“Ooomps; make bird tea, coffee? Baas Joe drink in spoon.”

“Yes, that’s right; you understand,” cried Dyke, and the woman hurried out with the birds, the dog following her, his instinct teaching him that there would be the heads and possibly other odds and ends to fall to his share. But before going, he went and poked at the two cubs and uttered a low bark.

“What do you think of these, Joe?” said Dyke, picking up his prizes, and placing them on the bed.

“Dangerous, little un,” said Emson feebly. “The mother will scent them out.”

“No: I feel sure it was their mother I shot last night. She lies out yonder where Tant and I dragged her.”

“Ah!” said Emson softly, “it was her skin Tant brought in to show me. She stripped it off to-night.”

“She did? Bravo! well done, Tant! But look here, Joe: couldn’t I bring these cubs up?”

“Yes, for a time; but they would grow dangerous. Try.”

That night, after finding very little difficulty in getting the cubs to suck a couple of pieces of rag soaked in milk, Dyke dropped asleep, to dream that the lioness had come to life again, and was waiting at the door for her cubs; but it proved to be only Tanta Sal once more, just at daybreak, with a tin of the bird soup, which she had set to stew overnight, and woke up early to get ready for the baas. Of this Emson partook with avidity as soon as he woke, his brother laughing merrily as he fed him with a wooden spoon, while Tant grinned with delight.

“Jack say Baas Joe go die,” she cried, clapping her legs with her hands. “Jack tief.”

Dyke endorsed the words that morning when he visited the still unladen wagon, for a bag of sugar and some more meal had disappeared.

He stood rubbing his ear viciously.

“It’s my fault for not taking the things indoors,” he said in a vexed tone of voice; “but I can’t do everything, and feeding those cubs last night made me forget to set Duke to watch.”

Then a thought struck him, and he put his head outside the tilt and shouted for Tant, who came running up, and at once climbed into the wagon.

“Did you fetch some mealies from here last night?” asked Dyke.

“No: Jack,” cried the woman excitedly—“Jack tief.”

“Yes; I thought so,” said Dyke thoughtfully. “There, that will do;” and making up his mind to watch that night, he went back to the house, had a few words with his brother, and then went round to see that all was right, coming back to breakfast after Tanta had shown him the lioness’s skin pegged out to dry.

Dyke watched that night, but in vain; Duke watched the next night also in vain, for there had been too much to do for the wagon to be emptied and the stores brought in.

For Emson required, in his weak state, an enormous deal of attention, which, however, was a delight to his brother, who had the satisfaction day by day of seeing him grow slightly better; while the Kaffir woman was indefatigable, and never seemed to sleep, Dyke’s difficulty being to keep her from making the patient travel in a retrograde path by giving him too much to eat.

“Baas Joe muss plenty meat, tea, coffee,” she said. “No eat, Baas Joe die.”

Hence Dyke had hard work to keep the larder supplied. Fortunately, however, the guinea-fowls’ roosting place proved to be almost inexhaustible, and twice over a little buck fell to the boy’s gun.

Then there was an ample supply of milk, some eggs, and dried meat to stew down, so that the patient did not fare so badly, as his returning strength showed.

But progress with the ostrich-farm was at a standstill, and Dyke used to look at the great stilt-stalking birds with a sorrowful air, and wish they were all running wild.

“But you are getting better fast, Joe,” he said one evening as he sat by the couch.

“Getting better slowly, not fast, little un,” replied Emson sadly. “Heaven knows how I pray for strength, so as to relieve you, boy.”

“Who wants to be relieved?” cried Dyke roughly. “All I mind is not getting on better with the work, because now I have not Jack to help. I get on so slowly.”

“I know, Dyke,” said Emson sadly, as he lay there propped up on his bed.

“Hullo! What’s the matter? What have I done?”

“Nothing but what is patient and persevering.”

“Oh, no! don’t say that,” cried the boy. “I’ve always been a discontented grumbler ever since I’ve been here, Joe. But, I say, don’t call me Dyke. It sounds as if you were getting formal with me, and as if we were not as we used to be before you were taken bad.”

“But we are, old chap. Better and more brotherly than ever. I never knew till now how brave, and true, and manly— Ha! he’s gone,” sighed Emson sadly; for Dyke had made a sudden bound, and dashed out of the place, keeping away for fully half an hour, before he thrust in his head once more.

“Ah, there you are,” said Emson. “Come and sit down. I want to speak to you.”

“Look here, Joe,” cried Dyke. “I’m baas now, and I shall do as I like. Are you going to talk any more of that nonsense? I am going if you are.”

“I shall not talk nonsense. I only said—”

“You stop, sir. Don’t you get only saiding again, for I won’t have it. It’s weak, and sickly, and sentimental. Who wants to be told that he helped his brother when he was ill? Such rot! Why, wouldn’t you have fed me and washed my face if I’d grown as stupid and weak as you? There, shake hands. I’ll forgive you this time; but if ever—Hooray-y-y-y! He’s getting some muscle in his arm again. You can feel him grip! Why, a fortnight ago it was like shaking hands with a dead chicken. I say, Joe, old man, you are heaps better.”

“Yes, I’m getting better. I feel as if I shall live now.”

“Live? Now there’s a jolly old stupid. Just as if you were ever going to feel anything else. Look here, Joe: I shall have to make an alteration. I’ve been spoiling you, giving you too many good things. And to begin with, I think I’ll cut your hair.”

“Isn’t it short enough?” said Emson rather piteously, as he feebly raised his hand to his temples.

“Yes, there: it looks nice and fashionable. But all down at the back it’s like Breezy’s mane.”

“Then you shall cut it, Dyke.”

“Ah-h-h!”

“Well then, young un. But how is poor Breezy?”

“Getting wild for want of riding. I went toward her yesterday, and she began dancing a pas-de-deux-legs on her fore-hoofs, and sparred at the sky with her hind. Wait a bit, and you and I’ll take some of the steam out of her and Longshanks. We’ll hunt out no end of ostriches’ nests in the farther-off part of the veldt. Here, what are you shaking your jolly old head for? It’s been quite shaky enough, hasn’t it?”

“I was thinking of the ostrich-farming, little un,” said Emson sadly. “No, my lad, no more time wasted over that. Two hundred years hence they may have got a more manageable strain of domesticated birds that will live well in confinement. We’ve had our try, and failed.”

“Bah! Not half tried. I haven’t. No, Joe, we won’t give up. We’ll do it yet. Why, it was that black scoundrel Jack who caused half the mischief. Oh, Joe, if I could only have caught him when he was knocking those poor young birds on the head, and had my gun with me.”

“What! would you have shot at him, young un?”

“If I’d had small shot in one of the barrels. They’d have just gone through, and peppered his hide nicely. I say, Joe, his clothes wouldn’t have stopped the shot corns.”

“No,” said Emson, smiling; “his clothes wouldn’t have stopped them.”

“Hooray-y-y-y!” shouted Dyke again, and the two lion cubs looked over the packing-case in which they were confined, wonderingly.

“Look at him! A regular half laugh. We shall have the whole laugh soon. But there, I mustn’t stop, wasting time here.”

“Yes; stay a little longer, little un. I want to talk to you,” said Emson.

“About my being such a nice, good boy—so brave and so noodley? No, you don’t. I’m off!”

“No, no; I will not say a word about that. I want to talk to you.”

“But the ostriches want feeding.”

“They must wait,” said Emson sadly. “They’ve made us wait for profit. Look here, little un; sit down.”

“Well, if you want it. But, honour bright: no buttering me.”

“I want to talk about our future.”

“Well, I can tell you that, Joe. We’re going to make a big success of the farm.”

“No, boy; we are going to give it up.”

“What! Sell it?”

“No; I should be ashamed to take money off a man for so worthless a bargain. We are going to scrape together what skins and feathers are ours, so as to pay our way, and going home.”

“What! empty?” cried Dyke. “That we won’t.”

“We must, boy. I shall never be myself till I have been under a good doctor.”

“What nonsense, Joe. There, let’s talk about something else.—I say, how playful the cubs get; but they’re more like big Saint Bernard pups than kittens.”

“Let us talk about our future, boy,” said Emson rather sternly. “I was thinking bitterly of our prospects when I was sickening for this fever, and I have thought more about them since I have been lying here helpless; and as soon as I can get about, we must prepare for going home.”

“Beaten! Go home, and say: ‘It’s of no use, father; we’re a poor, helpless pair.’”

“We must accept the inevitable, little un.”

“There isn’t any inevitable when you’re my age, Joe. One always used to feel on a bad day that sooner or later the fish would begin to bite.”

“Yes, but we used to change to another place.”

“Sometimes. Well, let’s change to another place, then. But it would be a pity. We’ve got never-failing water here, and even if the lions and baboons do come sometimes, it’s a capital place. I say, Joe, have another try.”

“You’ve quite changed your tune, old fellow,” said Emson mournfully. “Do you remember?”

“Why, of course. What fellow doesn’t remember what a donkey he has been? I’ve often thought of it while you were ill, Joe, and of what a nuisance I must have been while you were so patient. And I said to myself— There, never mind that—I say, Joe, do you really mean for us to go back beaten?”

“Yes.”

“Not have one more try!”

“No: I am too much broken down.”

“But I’m not. I’m getting full of pluck and work now, and I’ll do anything to keep things going till you come round.”

Emson shook his head sadly.

“I say it is of no use, my lad; we are trying an impossibility.”

“Then let’s try something else. What do you think old Morgenstern said?”

“That we were wasting time over the ostriches.”

“Well, yes, he did say that. But he said something else.”

“Yes? What?”

“That he heard they were finding diamonds out on the veldt, and that he should advise you to have a good try.”

“Moonshine, boy. The other day it was gold. Do you think we should be wise in spending our days hunting for diamonds?”

Dyke scratched his ear, glanced at his brother, and then shook his head.

“Come, you are wise in that. Old Morgenstern is a good, honest, old fellow, but it does not do to take anybody’s advice on your own affairs, about which you know best yourself. There, I must not talk any more; but don’t go dreaming about diamonds, little un. You and I did not come out here to make a fortune, but to get a straightforward, honest living.”

Emson closed his eyes, and Dyke sat watching him till his regular breathing told that he was fast asleep, and then the lad went out to go and busy himself about the place, meaning to take his gun that evening and make for the patch of forest beyond the kopje, so as to shoot a couple or so of the guinea-fowl; but a sharp storm came on and prevented him, though at bed-time, when he looked out, after seeing that the lion cubs and dog were curled up happily enough together, the stars were shining brilliantly, and a dull, soft light in the east told that the full moon would soon be up.

Five minutes later he was in his corner, feeling very drowsy, and a little troubled in his mind about his brother’s determination.

“But Joe’ll think differently when he gets better,” Dyke said to himself; and then began to think whether he ought not to have watched the wagon.

“One can’t work and watch, too,” he thought as he yawned, “but I might have made Duke sleep in the wagon, and I will.”

But he was so utterly wearied out that he kept putting off the getting up from minute to minute, till he forgot all about it in sleep, plunging at once into a troubled dream, in which he saw his brother standing, angry and threatening with a big stick in his hand, and about to bring it down upon him with a heavy thud for neglecting their valuable stores, when he awoke to find that there was some substance in that dream.