It was too late, however, to do anything this morning. In another hour dawn would be upon them. They must defer operations for another night, and hide the treasure. He explained what he had received to Cocoeni, who woke his friends to tell them, while Ned did the same with Fred and Clarence. A deep grunt of joy spoke the Kaffirs' feelings, while our heroes fairly danced with pleasure. To dig a small hole in the corner was the work of the next half-hour, after which they placed the articles side by side and covered them with the clay, which they pressed down, and moistening the top from their water-jug, they smoothed it as carefully over as they could in the dark. One of the Kaffirs lay down on the damp clay and dried it with his body, while the others crawled about and picked up every portion of loose clay, which they swallowed as they found them. Before the first streak of dawn crept in the floor was as clear of debris as it had been before, and the part over the pickaxe completely caked and dry. Then Ned looked up to see and remove the rag. It was gone. The one who had brought the gift had removed the signal. CHAPTER SIXTEEN. BREAKING THE TRONK. He is not a gregarious animal the Boer. Except for expeditions of murder or rapine, when expediency forces him to congregate, he prefers to wallow in his own sty. He does not enjoy night-work, either. The night to him is thronged with "spooks" and other nameless horrors which he does not care to face. He can murder a Kaffir in the most atrocious fashion, and think nothing about it as long as the sun shines, but he dreads that Kaffir's "spook" after the sun sets. Even the uncertain light of the moon doesn't seem to comfort him greatly. He has no humour in its sprightly and harmless sense. He can appreciate rough horse-play and clumsy practical jokes, particularly if there be a strong leaven of cruelty about them, and he is the joker. As a nation, the Boers have not wit enough to be sarcastic, although they can be bitter enough at times, and harsh always. But they are possessed, in its most childish, morbid, and undeveloped state, of imagination. During the day they are hard-headed, callous-hearted, keen-eyed men, ever on the outlook to best their neighbours and grab what advantage they can. Generations of previous warfare have made them quick and sure with their aim, perfect horsemen, and the finest skulkers in the world. By day they are impervious and vulture-eyed, and, according to their own uncivilised mode of conducting warfare, dogged and resolute, if not brave. We cannot call a man brave who slinks behind kopjes and circumvents his enemy only by treachery; yet, when driven into a hard corner, they will turn and fight with the viciousness of desperate rats.