"Who are they that I should go to them?" he asked indignantly. "Why should an O'Neil of Rietvlei wait on these common gamblers from Johannesburg? If they want to see me, let them come to my house!" My father had a house in Belfast where he transacted business and often spent the night when it was too late or too rainy to return to the Valley of Reeds. Soon we reached the center of the town and found thousands waiting to welcome us. All the Boers knew Slim Gert O'Neil and his sons, and we received an ovation. We passed through the town to father's house, and the horses were placed in the small kraal at the rear. He looked them over, Oom Tuys also being a keenly interested observer, and then went into the house. We boys remained outside, and it was one of the proudest moments of my life. So proud was I that I felt impelled to tell all the town boys what I really thought about father's horses and in particular about the speed of "Black Hand Tom." "He is so fast," I assured them, "that he outruns bullets. Only the lightning can catch him, and I am not any too sure about that!" Some of the boys jeered at my claim, and thereupon ensued a small battle. My impi backed me up, and it began to look as though some one would be badly hurt when Oom Tuys dashed out of the house and scattered us. "Mzaan Bakoor, you little devil!" he shouted, catching me by the ears. "Why do you make so much fight? Why do you tell such lies? 'Black Hand Tom' will only eat the dust of these Johannesburg horses. They are race horses!" Now this was sacrilege. To hear my uncle, the great "White King of Swaziland," say such a thing gave me such a shock that I forgot to kick his shins for tweaking my ears. Then came my inspiration! Brought up among sportsmen, I seized my chance. "If 'Black Hand Tom' is so slow, then you bet against him. I dare you!" I said. "Of course I will. I am no fool!" Tuys assured me. "All right, Oom Tuys, then you bet with me first," I said. "If 'Black Hand Tom' wins his race, you must take me with you to see King Buno the next time you go. I dare you to make your promise good. If father's horse loses, I'll never ask you to take me to Swaziland again!" Tuys let me go and hesitated a moment. I taunted him and dared him to take my bet, and he finally agreed. "If 'Black Hand Tom' wins, you leave for Swaziland with me in two weeks," he promised. We went into the house and found several of the Johannesburg gamblers there, waiting to talk to my father. They were drinking gin and whiskey, and I remember marveling at their wonderful clothes. Never before had I seen such waistcoats or such cravats, and their great, soft, light-colored hats were a revelation to me. I particularly noticed that they all smoked long black cigars, wore huge diamonds, and talked in loud coarse voices.