‘No, baas, don’t want to see ’em,’ said Speelman, suspiciously looking about him, as if he expected to see snakes in the water. ‘Jump on the ox,’ cried Keith; and in a second Speelman was astride of the kicking bullock. ‘Stand on your head in the water,’ cried Keith again, not expecting to be obeyed in this. But Speelman ducked into the water, head foremost, and only the tips of his legs were seen above water, kicking furiously. ‘You shouldn’t do that,’ said Steve, laughing. ‘It is dangerous; he might get drowned.’ He remained down so long, and the kicking became so furious, that Steve became anxious. He shouted to him to get up, but Speelman could not hear him. ‘By Jove! his head must be sticking in the mud,’ he cried, and jumping down, he seized Speelman by the legs and pulled him up. Assisted by Keith from the waggon, the poor old Hottentot was dragged on to the seat of the waggon. The poor old fellow presented a most comical face when pulled up. He was drawing in great breaths, to get his steam up again, while he spat the black mud out of his mouth. His whole head, eyes, ears and all were thickly coated with the black, sticky mud, while his pepper corn hair had disappeared under a coating of the same black, smooth pomade. It appears that his head really _did_ stick in the mud. ‘You must not do that again, baas; poor old Speelman would have been drowned if the baas had not pulled him out,’ said he to Keith. As to Keith, he and his companions had been too frightened to laugh at this exhibition of Speelman’s funniosities. He gave Speelman half-a-crown, and told him to go and wash the mud out of his mouth at the canteen beyond the drift. At this moment the extra span of oxen arrived, was attached to the front of the regular span, and with a _Trek, trek, haai you schelm, vat zou blik schottel_, the waggon moved forward, and was soon outspanned with the rest on the other side of the drift. The cart followed over, and soon the whole party was partaking of the regular bush veld fare--venison steak, leg of venison, broiled guinea-fowl, and _storm jagers_ (dough cakes). Speelman followed the advice given him by Baas Keith, and after having imbibed a pint of peach brandy, was as merry as a cricket, and was none the worse for his immersion, except, perhaps, that he was a little more pot-bellied than usual from the quantity of water he had drunk while standing on his head in the drift. After dinner, Steve and his party took leave of the transport riders with mutual expressions of good will and hopes of meeting again. In this way they proceeded from camp to camp. Many parties of farmers were met wintering with their herds in the bush veld; and all they had to do was to decide at which encampment they would outspan, or at which they would spend the night, which was mostly decided by the party of farmers who could give the most favourable report as to the game in their neighbourhood.