In the Whirl of the Rising. Mitford Bertram

their paroxysms seemed to threaten ultimate dissolution, as they twisted and squirmed and hugged themselves in their mirth.

      “Woza! We must get him out!” he cried at last. The shaft was no great depth as yet, luckily for Inyovu. Moreover, the bucket for hauling up the dirt was down there, and a spasmodic quiver of the rope showed that the ill-advised one was already climbing up, even if he had not arrested his fall by seizing the rope and holding on. Then, by their master’s orders, the boys manned the windlass, though so weakened by their recurring laughter they could hardly turn the handle, indeed were in danger of letting go every minute. At last the unfortunate one’s head rose above the mouth of the hole, and in a moment more he was standing glaring at his master with sulky apprehension.

      But Peters had enjoyed a good laugh, and all his anger had vanished.

      “Now, Inyovu,” he said cheerily, “get to work again.”

      And Inyovu did.

      Peace having been restored, the usual labour proceeded. Suddenly Peters’ horse, which was knee-haltered among the bushes hard by, began to whinny, then to neigh. That meant the proximity of another horse, and a minute or two later Lamont rode up alone.

      “Hallo, Peters! Nothing to make us millionaires to-day? What?” he sung out. “No sign of the stuff?”

      “Oh, that’ll come. You’ve got the grin now, but we’ll both have it – in the right direction too – when this bit of bush-veldt’s humming with battery stamps and you and I are boss directors of the new fraud,” answered Peters equably. They were to be joint partners in the results – if any – of Peters’ prospecting, at any rate while such was carried on upon Lamont’s farm.

      “‘Hope springs eternal…’ or there’d be no prospectors,” laughed the latter as he dismounted from his horse. “See here, Peters. I wish you’d left our desirable guest where he was, or taken him away somewhere else – anything rather than bring him here.”

      “What could I do, Lamont?” was the deprecating reply. “He said he was a pal of yours, and had come up-country on purpose to find you.”

      “As for the first, he lied. I hardly knew the fellow, and what little I saw of him I disliked. For the second, I’ve no doubt he did. No. You brought him, and you’ll have to take him away.”

      “Well, I’ll try and think out a plan.”

      “If you don’t, one of two things will happen. Either he’ll take over the whole show or I shall be indicted for murder.”

      “Couldn’t we set up a sort of Matabele rising scare, and rush him off to Gandela?” said Peters, brightening up. “I’ve a notion he isn’t brimming over with eagerness for a fight.”

      “The worst of setting up scares is that they’re apt to travel farther than you mean them to, especially just now when that sort of scare may any moment become grim reality. No, I’m afraid that plan won’t do.”

      “Isn’t there anyone you could pass him on to? Why not give him an introduction to Christian Sybrandt, and fire him off to Buluwayo?”

      “Because I wouldn’t give him an introduction to anybody – not on any account. See here, Peters. I don’t like the fellow – never did, and he knows it too. But he’s going to exploit me all he knows how, and – that won’t be far. You remember that – er – that rotten affair I told you about – you know, the thing that had to do with my coming out here again when I did? Well, this fellow Ancram was there at the time. Helped to hoot me down, you understand.”

      “Did he? The rotten, infernal swine! If I had known half that perhaps I would have left him for jackal’s meat in the mopani before I moved finger, let alone touched trigger, to get him out,” said Peters savagely. “By the Lord! I wonder you let him set foot inside the door after that.”

      “What could one do? You can’t turn a fellow away from your door, in this country, in a state of practical destitution, – for that’s what being without a horse amounts to. I wish you could have saved his horse, Peters. And now he’s been here ten days, and seems to think he owns the whole show. What do you think he’s been up to this morning?”

      “What?”

      “Why I sent him out to shoot birds, or anything he darn chose, along the river bank – anything to get rid of him. I sent Zingela with him to take care of him, and carry the birds. Blest if he didn’t start pounding Zingela.”

      Peters whistled.

      “That’s pretty thick,” he said.

      “Thick! I should think so. Swore the boy had cheeked him, and he hated niggers, and so forth. Coming on to another man’s place – without an invite, mind you – and then sailing in to bash his boys. Eh?”

      “Yes. But had Zingela cheeked him?”

      “Small wonder if he had. But all I could get out of the boy was that Ancram abused him because he couldn’t find a guinea-fowl that had run. He owned to having answered he wasn’t a dog. Then Ancram let into him. I’m not a good-tempered chap, Peters, and there’ll be a most unholy row soon. What’s to be done?”

      “I have it,” cried Peters, his whimsical face puckering all over with glee. “I have it. You know how skeery he looked when we were telling him about the possibility of a rising. Well then, let’s cram him up that the Matabele are awful vindictive devils, and Zingela will never rest till he has his blood. How’s that?”

      “Well, that’s an idea.”

      “Rather. He’ll wilt at the notion of a bloodthirsty savage, always looking out for his chance, day and night – especially the night, mind – of getting an assegai into him. I believe that’ll do the trick. What?”

      “I shouldn’t wonder. By Jove, Peters, you’re a genius. Well, you work it. If we both do, it’ll look suspicious.”

      “Right! I will. Still the fellow can be amusing at times. I’ll never forget that first time we introduced ourselves. ‘I’m Peters, prospector,’ says I. ‘And I’m Ancram, prospectless,’ says he, without a moment’s thought.”

      And Peters went off into a roar over the recollection.

      Chapter Five.

      Ancram – Prospectless

      In crediting his unwelcome guest with a desire to ‘take over the whole show,’ Lamont was stating no more than was warranted by fact. For Ancram had made himself rather more than very much at home, to such an extent indeed that he might have been the owner of the place. Further, he had adopted a kind of elder-brotherly tone towards Lamont, and a patronising one towards Peters: and of this, and of him altogether, small wonder that both men were already thoroughly sick. Moreover, he showed not the slightest symptom of moving on.

      As a sacrifice on the sacred altar of hospitality Lamont had conscientiously striven to conceal his dislike for the man, had even gone out of the way in order to make time pass pleasantly for him, in pursuance of which idea he had stood from him what he would have stood from nobody else. All of which Ancram put down to a wrong motive, and made himself more objectionable still.

      “What are your plans, Ancram?” said Lamont, the day after the foregoing conversation.

      “Oh, my dear fellow, it’s so jolly here with you I hadn’t begun to think of any.”

      Lamont’s face was stony grim in its effort to repress a frown.

      “It brings back dear old Courtland,” went on Ancram, watching his host narrowly. “Now you don’t knock up against anyone who knows Courtland too, every day out here, Lamont?”

      “No. I don’t know that that’s any loss, by the way.”

      “Not? Now I should have thought – er – that for old acquaintance’ sake you’d – er – but then – er – I was forgetting. What a fool I am.”

      He little suspected how cordially his listener was agreeing.

      “You see, it’s this way, Lamont. I came out here