On one of his trips Tuys dropped in to see our old friend Umzulek and came back with the report that the kaffir chief was minding his own business and obeying orders. However, he made Tuys a proposition that showed him to be still willing to make trouble, if it were profitable. "The old rascal suggested that he make a demonstration with all his impis against our borders," my uncle reported. "If he made a great enough showing, he thought, and news of it reached Oom Paul, our President would be willing to pay him tribute to keep the peace. It seems he has been thinking about Buno's monthly gift of two thousand pounds and the gin that went with it. He has a sort of feeling that it is a shame to let this money get out of the family! The crafty beggar only hinted at his scheme at first, but I finally smoked him out and he admitted what was in his mind." "What did you tell him?" my father asked, glancing at Tuys keenly. Father remembered the days of Buno, when ugly rumors used to float out concerning Tuys's activities in Swaziland. "I told him to go to hell," Tuys exclaimed, "or I would come with many rifles and send him there!" Inasmuch as Umzulek could have no conception of what my uncle meant by "hell", since the Swazis have no such place in their daily thought, it is safe to assume that Tuys was using a figure of speech. Nevertheless, he gave Umzulek to understand that it would be unhealthy for him to start a row along the border. We were still living in Belfast when the war came to an end. Our home at Rietvlei was in ruins and it was almost a year before my father was able to get a portion of it rebuilt. However, before returning there we lived for a time in Potchefstroom, where my father had interested himself in some gold properties. Prospecting was always fascinating to him and he was usually successful in these ventures. His English secretary remained in Belfast, safe-guarding his interests there and making frequent visits to the homestead in the Valley of Reeds. Our kaffir farmers and servants had been widely scattered by the war, but soon began to drift back. Each told a different tale of his wanderings, and many of these were quite harrowing. A number of our people had escaped to Jafta's kraal and not a few had gone into Swaziland until the war ended. Klaas, our old jockey and one of my dearest playmates, had disappeared during the second year of the war, but one day my father told me that he had returned to Rietvlei. Father was about to make one of his periodical trips to Belfast and the Valley of Reeds, and he promised to bring Klaas back with him to Potchefstroom.