As soon as camp was pitched, we looked about a bit and discovered the ruins of an old Boer farm-house a little way up the river. There was a trickle of smoke coming out of the chimney and this encouraged us to visit the place as soon as possible. The thought of fire was heartening; it meant hot things to drink and possibly warm food. When I came close to it I saw that there were two rooms, badly roofed over, but the blackened walls showed that the old house had been quite an imposing building. My knock was answered by a young Boer with wild, hunted eyes. He looked us over as we stood there in the pouring rain, and a moment later smiled graciously and invited us in. When the door closed he ceremoniously extended his hand and we shook hands all around. "Strangers seldom come during the storms," he said, "and I was surprised to hear your knock. I was cooking some coffee in the back room and now I shall add enough for all of us." This was a welcome thought to us, and in a little while our drooping spirits were revived by the hot drink. Then we cooked the food we had brought with us and had a merry party. It seems the young fellow was quite bucked up over having visitors and he did well by the gin we had brought with us. But still it rained outside! It came down as it only can in the Transvaal, and that means a steady, relentless downpour which looked as though it would last for days. We decided to make ourselves as comfortable as possible, and our host insisted that we take over his house. He was a very pleasant fellow and before long we were good friends. It seems that the old house had been the home of his parents and grandparents. It was a pioneer homestead and had been burned by the British during the Boer War. Both his parents had died there and the place had never been rebuilt. He had been born in the room in which we rested and he told us that he hoped some day to rebuild and make his thousands of acres profitable. Bit by bit we got the story of the place from him. It had been destroyed in retaliation for some act of treachery, for which, he assured us, his parents were not responsible. I asked him if he did not get lonesome living there by himself and suggested that he ought to get a wife to keep him company. My question opened up a queer side of his character, and then we understood the hunted look in his eyes. "By day," he said slowly, "I don't mind being here alone. In good weather people cross the river and come to me to buy things. I have a store, you know, and sometimes as many as five or six come each week." This was news to us. We did not see any evidence of a store, but this probably explained the small boxes and bundles in the back room.