"Neither would I," resumed the orator in a more conciliatory tone, "unless I 'ad to. But we've got to be clean... We've got to 'elp the doctor... We've got to fight this thing. Coming events cast their shadders before. It'll be here amongst us next. And it ain't no use waitin' for the Government. What's the use of the Government when you're out prospecting with six boys, an' the lions come on you an' kill three of them? Whot d'you do? S'pose you got a gun loaded in two barrels... Do you run back to call the p'lice? ... Do you go for the magistrate to come an' 'elp yer? Where'd you an' your boys be? ... No! You put your barrel into their guts and pull the trigger--yes, every time. An' we got to do the same with the dysentery. 'E don't come on you with a bound; 'e crawls through the grass, like a snake. 'E comes on gradually and slow... takes you unawares. We've got to stamp 'im out. We've got to pull the trigger, and not wait for the Government..." "Sit down, Mat, and give somebody else a chance," Stephens interrupted, with a wink at the rest. "You can 'ave your say," retorted Mat, "when I've finished." He turned round and round, emphasising his remarks with repeated blows of one hard soiled fist upon the grimy palm of the other hand. "We've got to stamp it out," he shouted. "We've got to fight it. I remember when I was young--" "For God's sake, dry up!" interposed another. "You've missed your vocation." "Who're you gettin' at with yer `vocation'?" Rentoul demanded with bitter superiority. "I don't know anything about vocation. I picked up my eddication off jam tins and pickle bottles. I've no time for vocation. If you'd been in Jo'burg when I was there, you'd 'ave 'ad no time for eddication either. You'd 'ave been in tronk, where they makes yer wash yer face every morning--behind the ears too. To hell with yer! I've said all I want ter say... We've got to stamp it out." He fell to muttering, and eyeing the last interrupter malevolently, sat down again. "We've got to stamp it out," he said. "Gimme the bottle, Tom. You've swilled too much of that dysentery mixture, me boy. You're drunk--tha's what you are." "Van Bleit was running some quarry in Cape Town," an older man observed, continuing the conversation from where it had been broken off. He sucked thoughtfully at his pipe and stared into the fire... "Woman with lots of money, I heard--and looks too. Must be hard up for an honest man if she takes on Karl." "This case will have about finished that game, I should fancy," the chef of the party remarked. Lawless got up, and flung a fresh log on the fire. He kicked it into position with his boot, and pressed it down among the glowing embers, pressing heavily as though it were some enemy he trod beneath his foot. Then he turned slowly round. "Time's been standing still for some of you," he said. "I've been in Cape Town recently. There's nothing in that report." Rentoul looked up from his corner.