Jock Of The Bushveld by Sir Percy Fitzpatrick (Chapter 26)( Page 1 ) Our Various Ways

When the trip was squared off and the boys paid, there was nothing left. Jim went home with waggons returning to Spitzkop: once more--for the last time--grievously hurt in dignity because his money was handed to my friend the owner of the waggon to be paid out to him when he reached his kraal; but his gloomy resentment melted as I handed over to him things for which there was no further need.  The waggons moved off, and Jim with them; but twice he broke back again to dance and shout his gratitude; for it was wealth to him to have the reims and voorslag, the odd yokes and strops and waggon tools, the baking pot and pan and billies; and they were little to me when all else was gone.  And Jim, with all his faults, had earned some title to remembrance for his loyalty.  My way had been his way; and the hardest day had never been too hard for him: he had seen it all through to the finish, without a grumble and without a shirk. His last shout, like the bellow of a bull, was an uproarious goo -bye to Jock.  And Jock seemed to know it was something of an occasion, for, as he stood before me looking down the road at the receding waggons and the dancing figure of Jim, his ears were cocked, his head was tilted a little sideways, and his tail stirred gently.  It was at least a friendly nod in return! A couple of weeks later I heard from my friend: "You will be interested to hear that that lunatic of yours reached his kraal all right; but that's not _his_ fault.  He is a holy terror.  I have never known such a restless animal: he is like a change in the weather--you seem to feel him everywhere, upsetting everything and every one the whole time.  I suppose you hammered him into his place and kept him there; but I wouldn't have him at a gift.  It is not that there was anything really wrong; only there was no rest, no peace. "But he's a gay fighter!  That was a treat: I never laughed so much in my life.  Below the Devil's Kantoor we met a lot of waggons from Lydenburg, and he had a row with one of the drivers, a lanky nigger with dandy-patched clothes.  The boy wouldn't fight--just yelled blue murder while Jim walloped him.  I heard the yells and the whacks, like the beating of carpets, and there was Jim laying it on all over him--legs, head, back, and arms--with a sort of ferocious satisfaction, every whack being accompanied by a husky suppressed shout: `Fight, Shangaan! Fight!'  But the other fellow was not on for fighting; he floundered about, yelled for mercy and help, and tried to run away; but Jim simply played round him--one spring put him alongside each time.  I felt sorry for the long nigger and was going to interfere and save him, but just then one of his pals called out to their gang to come along and help, and ran for his sticks.  It was rare fun then.  Jim dropped the patched fellow and went like a charging lion straight for the waggons where the gang were swarming for their sticks, letting out right and left whenever he saw a nigger, whether they wanted to fight or not; and in about five seconds the whole lot were heading for the bush with Jim in full chase.