"Tom's a good sort," Rentoul continued, blinking round on the rest... "Always said so--goo' sort!--but fond of his liquor. You're drunk, Tom... Been takin' wets along the road." Hayhurst laughed again. "The veld's so overstocked with pubs--ain't it?" he said. "Here, hand out the plates, someone--will you?--this mess is ready," announced the chef. There was a general move. The clattering of plates and knives superseded the talk; and for a fairly lengthy interval conversation gave place entirely to the sound of hungry men feeding noisily in rude and primitive fashion. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. When supper was ended the plates were pushed into a bucket of water and left to soak until they should be required again. One of the men got hold of the newspaper, and read it aloud to the rest. The names of Van Bleit and Simmonds were familiar to everyone present. Some of them had been personally acquainted with the owners of the names, and all were interested more or less in the case. "It's the best man that has reached his terminus," Stephens remarked. "I could spin a yarn or two about Van Bleit." "Who couldn't?" laughed another man. "But he always comes up smiling, somehow. I should say this let off was the biggest surprise he ever had." "'E served me an ugly trick once," muttered Rentoul darkly, endeavouring to obtain a further supply of dop from the empty bottle beside him... "Over a woman that was... When I was down with dysentery too." He sat up with a poor attempt to look sober, and leaning forward tried to push the floor away, which, in the most annoying manner, threatened to hit him in the face. To avoid collision with it, he stood upon his feet, and turning round two or three times to get his balance, raised his arms and solemnly addressed the grinning group of listeners. "Dysentery's a crool complaint, gets a grip on a man. Reg'lar epidemic it was in camp that year. Doctor done 'is best to stamp it out, but whot could 'e do in that beastly 'ole? I done whot I could to 'elp 'im. `Boys, the doctor's right,' I says. `You're a dirty lot o' swine. Look at your camps. D'you expect the doctor to go round an' stick 'is nose into your stinking places? Why don't you clean up? ... Personal cleanliness... I know... I've seen it afore.'" He pointed at the grinning faces about him, and became personal and aggressive. "You wouldn't wash your dirty mugs if you could 'elp it, any of you." "That'll do, Mat," someone interrupted.