He dropped out his words one by one in a particularly melancholy fashion. Every now and then he galvanized himself to further efforts by ejaculating something that sounded like "Platt Skeet," uttered fortissimo and in marked contrast to the rest of his delivery. When he did this, half his audience yelled "Whoof, whoof!" which is possibly Dutch for "Hear, hear," and the other half woke up with a start from the pleasant nap they had been having. I was given to understand that the gentleman had been speaking for at least three days. They must have a lot of patience in South Africa.
I have invented endless jobs to keep Pagett in Cape Town, but at last the fertility of my imagination has given out, and he joins me to-morrow in the spirit of the faithful dog who comes to die by his master's side. And I was getting on so well with my Reminiscences too! I had invented some extraordinarily witty things that the strike leaders said to me and I said to the strike leaders.
This morning I was interviewed by a Government official. He was urbane, persuasive and mysterious in turn. To begin with, he alluded to my exalted position and importance and suggested that I should remove myself, or be removed by him, to Pretoria.
"You expect trouble, then?" I asked.
His reply was so worded as to have no meaning whatsoever, so I gathered that they were expecting serious trouble. I suggested to him that his Government were letting things go rather far.
"There is such a thing as giving a man enough rope, and letting him hang himself, Sir Eustace."
"Oh, quite so, quite so."
"It is not the strikers themselves who are causing the trouble. There is some organization at work behind them. Arms and explosives have been pouring in, and we have made a haul of certain documents which throw
