"The vor-chiest is ready, Lang-Jan," said Mrs. Gilbert, coming to the
door. "Everything that can, had better be put in place to-night."
"Ja, Meeses," agreed Jan. "It's a long trek from this here place to the
town in one day, and I will start early, while the stars are still out."
Lang-Jan was our driver, so called to distinguish him from the numerous
other Jans about the place.
The distinction was appropriate, for he looked very tall and slim,
though it might be the contrast with his wife's massive build that gave
him a false presentment. He was more proud of her bulk than of his own
height, and used to jeer at his Hottentot leader for the scraggy
appearance of _his_ weaker half, possibly with the kindly intention of
reducing the number, or severity, of the poor creature's beatings.
I do not believe Jan ever beat his wife, though I think she was as lazy
a woman as could be found. Perhaps he got most of his rations provided
from the house, and was not dependent on her for his comfort.
However, he seemed to me to have a Mark Tapley temper; the more
unendurable the weather got, the cheerier he grew with his guttural and
yet limpid cries to the oxen, and his brisk steps by their side.
There was one thing, however, he could not see in patience--an amateur
who had borrowed his whip with the proud intention of "helping to drive"
letting the end of four yards of lash draggle over the dewy karoo,
thereby making it limp and reducing its power to clack in the approved
fashion.
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