They had various success. One day, perhaps, they had the best of sport, the next day, perhaps, they failed in bringing down a single head of game. But on the whole, they were perfectly satisfied with their trip. We shall relate only one more incident of their holiday trip. It was the last day; that evening they hoped to sleep in Pretoria again. They were speeding along merrily. It was still forenoon, and Pretoria was hardly four hours distant, so they had no doubt of reaching home before night. It had rained severely the day before along the track of country on which they were then travelling. Suddenly they turned into the main road from the warm baths, and now they had reason to regret the rain of the day before--they were in the famous _turf veld_. They had not proceeded far before the turf began to tell severely on the pace of the horses. At first they slackened their speed only a little, but soon they were going at barely more than a walk. The sticky black soil was coating the wheels to such a degree that the spokes gradually became nearer and nearer to each other, until the wheels had no spokes, but became a solid mass of black turf. All that the travellers could do was to halt and scrape off the worst part of the mud, when for a time they were able to go on again at a slightly better pace. Full advantage was taken of any unbroken veld, where the heavy waggons had not yet cut up the soil into furrows and ridges of soft black soil. But these patches were scarce, as every driver of waggon or cart generally turns out of the beaten track into the grass alongside, and in course of time the quarter or half mile strip of country, which is supposed to be left unfenced along all roads as feeding ground for trekking herds, becomes so cut up that very little choice is left the traveller as to where he shall steer his weary beasts. The young men were wearily and dejectedly plodding along, dismounting now and again to scrape the wheels, when they came to a waggon standing in the middle of the road--deserted. The oxen were still inspanned and seemed waiting for their owner. No fear of their running away; how could they? Their own feet were invisible, a round mass of black _turf_--twice the usual size of ox feet--was all that was visible where their feet ought to be, while the wheels of the waggon seemed to be made of solid chunks of mud--no spokes, no rims, no naves being visible. ‘Well, this is funny,’ remarked Harrison; ‘a waggon without owner. There is something wrong here; nobody would leave their waggon inspanned like this--untended.’ ‘Yes, it is queer,’ answered Steve. ‘But I fancy there is the owner coming on,’ said he, pointing to a man visible in the road about half a mile farther on. ‘It may be the owner, but he is not coming, but standing, evidently waiting for the party I see farther on.’