Having been riding all day in an antiquated saddle which was patched and cobbled past all belief, and to enjoy sitting in which was a taste difficult to acquire, I had thought to rest a bit by riding in the waggon, and in spite of the jolting must have dozed a bit just about the time we began on the down-grade. Half dreaming, I heard the shouting and jabbering of the “boys” as they screwed down the brake, then I felt the waggon skidding and the back part tilting up, then we struck a rock, and the whole of the gear that the up-grade had collected astern came “forrard” with a run. A prospecting-pan ricochetted from my head with a bang, a rifle slipped from its slings and smote me amidships, a kitbag came lengthwise over my anatomy and pinned my legs down, and before I could struggle free a perfect avalanche of various other belongings overwhelmed me. I tried to get free, I tried to yell loud enough for the driver to hear, but he, and every other blamed Hottentot, was yelling at the top of his voice, the big whip was cracking like a lively rifle-fire, and the skidding wheels were screeching and grinding and banging against obstructions with such a din that my feeble bleat stood no chance of being heard. At last a lucky lurch threw me clear and I struggled up beside the driver. It was pitch dark, but we appeared to be going down a precipice full of loose rocks that threatened destruction at every yard. “Solomon,” I yelled in his ear, “you must be off the path.” “Nie, baas,” he jerked out between his yells to the oxen. “Then,” said I, as the front wheels rose over a big boulder, and came down with a terrific crash on the rock below it, “get off it!” I’m not sure if he did, in fact I’m not sure of anything that happened during that mad toboggan except trying to hold in the avalanche of fallen gear inside the waggon; but after an interminable but by no means dull time, we hit bottom somewhere, and outspanned in a dark gully, but on fairly level ground. I wanted coffee badly, and, groping round, I soon had plenty of dry bush for a fire. Then I couldn’t find the matches, and I remembered that, as usual, I had lent them to Ransson, who used to principally live on them. But I couldn’t find him, and call as I could there was no answer. The “boys” had outspanned and gone off with the oxen; and though we had matches by the gross, all my groping in the darkness and devastation inside the waggon failed to find one. After a while I got mad and commenced pulling everything out and dumping it in the gully; it would have to come out and be repacked, anyhow! And at length I found the overturned “scoff-box” and in it matches and a candle. After that I found Ransson; he was quite at the bottom of the pile, a tin of golden syrup had oozed out of the scoff-box all over him, but he still slept tranquilly and was considerably annoyed when I woke him up. I wish I could sleep like Ransson!