Monday morning early, fishing was begun in earnest. A fairly successful day was spent on the river bank. Towards sundown the party returned to camp. After coffee had been made and partaken of, Steve proposed that they should go to the little country store, lying about half-a-mile away. ‘It will be a nice little walk before supper,’ he remarked, ‘and, besides, we might hear some news from the shopkeeper, as he is the post-agent here.’ His proposal was accepted, and the party strolled forth. Arrived at the store, they found the proprietor to be one Nande. This Nande was an Afrikander born, but an English educated young man; handsome, stout, and well spoken, but slightly deaf. As to his character, that will be sufficiently gathered from his conversation and acts. After a few trifling purchases had been made in the store, as a sort of introduction, Steve inquired if he had heard any news from Pretoria or Johannesburg to-day. ‘Oh, yes, I have heard news, and if it is true, I shall be jolly glad; it will show these miserable Boers that the British people are not to be trifled with. I hear that Jameson has entered the Transvaal with eight hundred troopers, and is marching on to Johannesburg at full speed; it is only a rumour as yet, I heard it at the station this afternoon.’ At the first few words Steve trembled with agitation and apprehension for the Transvaal, for, if this was true, it really meant war with Great Britain, for Jameson and his men were really British troops. But a moment’s reflection showed him how improbable such a thing must be. He could not believe England capable of such perfidy. The Transvaal was at peace with England, and had done absolutely nothing to provoke an invasion, or even a talk of an invasion from England. Besides, the last decade of the nineteenth century was not a time when one civilised country invades another, unprovoked and without rhyme or reason. No, the wish was only father to the thought, it was not to be believed for a moment. But what struck Steve with disgust was that this young man, who looked like an Afrikander, appeared to wish for such an invasion, and seemed to glory in the very idea of it. ‘May I ask what your name is, sir?’ he said, turning to the storekeeper. ‘My name is Nande.’ ‘But that is a pure Afrikander name.’ ‘So it is. I was born in the Cape Colony, and have been in the Transvaal now for five years.’ ‘But why do you speak as if you wished for the downfall of our Afrikander Republic?’ ‘Because I do not think it right that we should be governed by these Boers any longer. Why, they refused to give me a situation just because I could not write Hollander-Dutch; they rather gave it to a Hollander than to an Afrikander.’ ‘I think that shows their good sense,’ replied Steve; ‘if you had learned your mother tongue as well as you did English, they would not have refused you.’