That the inborn sense of humour of the Dutch South African race should have
been stunted in its growth, if not completely crushed, by the horrors of the
war, would be small cause for surprise to most people who have given the
matter a thought. But to those of us acquainted with the facts, an entirely
different and wholly comprehensible aspect of the case has been made
manifest.
The blessed gift of humour is only sharpened by the hard realities of life,
can never be appreciated to the full in the calm and shallow waters of
prosperity.
Of
this we had innumerable proofs during those tempestuous days, and certain it
is that the memory of a harmless joke, enjoyed under circumstances of
unusual stress and trouble, grows sweeter and is strengthened as the years
go by.
For dry humour and keen enjoyment of the ludicrous, our friend Mr. W. Botha
could not easily be surpassed; and I advise you, good reader, if you have
the chance, to induce him to tell you the following story in his own words,
and to watch the flicker of amusement in his eye.
Four of Captain Naudé's spies are in town again, resting, shopping, and
exchanging items of war experiences with their friends and relatives.
Countless parcels have arrived from various stores of note in town, and four
big bags, full to bursting, are arrayed against the wall for transportation
"to the front" at 7 o'clock that night.
But what is this? Another bag? Impossible! There are but four men going out
and each one has his load, quite as much as he can carry already.
What does it contain? A beautiful brand-new saddle, the property of an
English officer, which Willie Els, son of the Committee member, has
determined shall on no account be left behind.
Expostulations from the older men are all in vain.
The saddle, with the four other bags, is put into Delport's cab, which is
waiting at the door, and, after many fond farewells, the young men drive off
in the direction of the Pretoria Lunatic Asylum.
At
this time there is no better spot for exit from the capital, but in order to
reach it one point of extreme danger has to be passed—the point at which a
British officer, with five-and-twenty mounted men, is stationed, in command
of a searchlight apparatus for scouring the surrounding country.
The dangerous spot has been frequently passed in safety by these very spies.
To-night they pass again in unobserved security, but alas! when they have
crossed the railway line, immediately opposite the asylum, where they are in
the habit of alighting with their parcels, they find to their distress that,
try as they will, they cannot carry more than the four bags allotted to them
in the first instance.
The bag containing the precious saddle must go back to town.
Oh, the pity of it!
The critical spot must be passed again, and, as ill-luck would have it, the
British officer hails the passing cab and is about to get in, when his eye
falls on the bag.
"What is this?" he asks the driver.
No
concealment possible now!
"A
saddle, sir."
"A
saddle! Whose, and where are you taking it?"
"From Mr. Botha to Mr. Els in town. On my way I was stopped and asked to
take some passengers to the asylum, which I have just done. I was going to
Mr. Botha when you stopped me."
The officer looks doubtful, feels the bag all over and, taking a notebook
from his pocket, enters all the details of this most suspicious-looking
affair, the number of the cab, the name and address of the driver, the names
and full addresses of the two men who have been mentioned.
Then he gets in and peremptorily orders the cabman to drive to such-and-such
an hotel in the centre of the town.
With a throb of relief Delport deposits his fare at the hotel and, whipping
up his horses, drives at the utmost speed to Mr. Els' house, to warn him of
the danger he is in.
Mr. and Mrs. Botha have just retired for the night, when they are aroused by
a hurried knock at the front door. They admit two girls, one of them the
daughter of Mrs. Els, the other a sister to Mrs. Naudé, both extremely
agitated.
Miss Els speaks first:
"Oom
Willie, you must please come to our house at once. My father is very ill."
Oom Willie's heart sinks into his slippers.
This, the long-expected sign that their game is up, has come at last.
He
hastens to the home of his friend.
When he learns the truth the case does not seem so hopeless after all and he
feels his courage returning.
"We must think of some plan with which to meet the police when they come.
Quick! There is not a moment to lose. They may be here at any minute."
In
an incredibly short time the officer's new saddle is buried in a bag of
coal, which is again sewn up and thrown into the back-yard, while an old and
worthless saddle is produced, Heaven only knows from where, cut up into
pieces and placed in a large basin of water on the dining-room table.
"Now, Oom Gerrie," Mr. Botha says, as soon as he can find his breath, "you
are a shoemaker by trade, and this old saddle has been sent to you by me to
make shoes for my children."
"But you have not got any! and I have never made a shoe in my life!"
"Well, then, for my nieces and nephews. Never mind about your ignorance.
When any one comes in, remember you are just on the point of beginning your
work. I shall send you an old last when I get home."
A
pocket-knife, a hammer, and a few nails scattered on the table complete the
shoemaker's outfit, and there he sits, with trembling hands and spectacles
on nose, far into the night, for does he not expect the dreaded knock at his
front door before the dawn of another day?
Next morning Oom Willie raps smartly at the door and walks in
unceremoniously, to find Oom Gerrie just about to begin his work, as with
shaking hand he adjusts his spectacles.
"How is trade this morning?" he asks, with a jolly laugh, as he settles
himself on a chair to watch his friend's discomfiture. But Oom Gerrie is not
pleased at all. The trade is getting on Oom Gerrie's nerves, and he takes no
part in the hilarity around him.
Two days pass, three, four, and no English officer appears, no search is
made for contraband of war in Oom Gerrie's house; but every time the door is
opened or a footstep heard on the verandah, Oom Gerrie may be found with one
hand plunged in a basin of water, while with the other he adjusts his
spectacles.
Poor Oom Gerrie!
He
gives up his trade in despair at last, for after all it does not pay, but as
long as the old man lives he will be forced to listen to the question:
"How is the boot-making trade?"
