Jock Of The Bushveld by Sir Percy Fitzpatrick (Chapter 23)( Page 1 ) The Fighting Baboon

On the way to Lydenburg, not many treks from Paradise Camp, we were outspanned for the day.  Those were the settled parts; on the hills and in the valleys about us were the widely scattered workings of the gold diggers or the white tents of occasional prospectors. The place was a well-known and much-frequented public outspan, and a fair-sized wayside store marked its importance.  After breakfast we went to the store to `swap' news with the men on the spot and a couple of horsemen who had offsaddled there. There were several other houses of sorts; they were rough wattle and daub erections which were called houses, as an acknowledgment of pretensions expressed in the rectangular shape and corrugated iron roof. One of these belonged to Seedling, the Field Cornet and only official in the district.  He was the petty local Justice who was supposed to administer minor laws, collect certain revenues and taxes, and issue passes.  The salary was nominal, but the position bristled with opportunities for one who was not very particular; and the then occupant of the office seemed well enough pleased with the arrangement, whatever the public may have thought of it. He was neither popular nor trusted: many tales of great harshness and injustice to the natives, and of corruption and favouritism in dealing with the whites, added to habitual drunkenness and uncertain temper, made a formidable tally in the account against him; he was also a bully and a coward, and all knew it; but unfortunately he was the law--as it stood for us! Seedling, although an official of the Boer Government, was an Englishman; there were several of them on the goldfields in those days, and for the most part, they were good fellows and good officials--this one was an exception.  We all knew him personally: he was effusively friendly; and we suffered him and--paid for the drinks.  That was in his public capacity: in his private capacity he was the owner of the fighting baboon of evil and cruel repute. If ever fate's instruments moved unconscious of their mission and the part they were to play, it is certain that Jock and Jim Makokel' did so that day--the day that was the beginning of Seedling's fall and end. It is not very clear how the trouble began.  We had been sitting on the little store-counter and talking for over an hour, a group of half a dozen, swapping off the news of the goldfields and the big world against that from Delagoa and the Bushveld; Seedling had joined us early and, as usual, began the morning with drinks.  We were not used to that on the road or out hunting; indeed, we rarely took any drink, and most of us never touched a drop except in the towns.  The transport-rider had opportunities which might easily become temptations--the load often consisting of liquor, easy to broach and only to be paid for at the end of the trip; but we had always before us the lesson of the failures. Apart from this, however, we did not take liquor, because we could not work as well or last as long, run as fast or shoot as straight, if we did.  And that was reason enough! We had one round of drinks which was `called' by one of the horsemen, and then, to return the compliment, another round called by one of us. A few minutes later Seedling announced effusively that it was his `shout.'  But it was only ten in the morning, and those who had taken spirits had had enough, indeed, several had only taken a sip of the second round in order to comply with a stupid and vicious custom; I would not and could not attack another bottle of sour gingerbeer; and thus Seedling's round was reduced to himself and the proprietor.  No man however thirsty would drink alone in those days--it was taken a mark of meanness or evidence of `soaking'--and the proprietor had to be ready at any time to `take one for the good of the house.' A quarter of an hour passed, and Seedling, who had said nothing since his `shout' was declined, turned away and strolled out, with hands thrust deep in the pockets of his riding breeches and a long heavy sjambok dangling from one wrist.  There was silence as he moved through the doorway, and when the square patch of sunlight on the earth floor was again unbroken the man behind the counter remarked,--