Jock Of The Bushveld by Sir Percy Fitzpatrick (Chapter 26)( Page 3 ) Our Various Ways

In camp--Barberton in those days was reckoned a mining camp, and was always referred to as `camp'--the danger was due to the number of sounds.  He would stand behind me as I stopped in the street, and sometimes lie down and snooze if the wait was a long one; and the poor old fellow must have thought it a sad falling off, a weary monotonous change from the real life of the veld.  At first he was very watchful, and every rumbling wheel or horse's footfall drew his alert little eyes round to the danger point; but the traffic and noise were almost continuous and one sound ran into another; and thus he became careless or puzzled and on several occasions had narrowly escaped being run over or trodden on. Once, in desperation after a bad scare, I tried chaining him up, and although his injured reproachful look hurt, it did not weaken me: I had hardened my heart to do it, and it was for his own sake.  At lunch-time he was still squatting at the full length of the chain, off the mat and straw, and with his head hanging in the most hopeless dejected attitude one could imagine.  It was too much for me--the dog really felt it; and when I released him there was no rejoicing in his freedom as the hated collar and chain dropped off: he turned from me without a sign or sound of any sort, and walking off slowly, lay down some ten yards away with his head resting on his paws!  He went to think--not to sleep. I felt abominably guilty, and was conscious of wanting to make up for it all the afternoon. Once I took him out to Fig Tree Creek fifteen miles away, and left him with a prospector friend at whose camp in the hills it seemed he would be much better off and much happier.  When I got back to Barberton that night he was waiting for me, with a tag of chewed rope hanging round his neck, not the least ashamed of himself, but openly rejoicing in the meeting and evidently never doubting that I was equally pleased.  And he was quite right there. But it could not go on.  One day as he lay asleep behind me, a loaded waggon coming sharply round a corner as nearly as possible passed over him.  The wheel was within inches of his back as he lay asleep in the sand: there was no chance to grab--it was a rush and a kick that saved him; and he rolled over under the waggon, and found his own way out between the wheels. A few days after this Ted passed through Barberton, and I handed Jock over to him, to keep and to care for until I had a better and safer home for him. One day some two years later there turned up at my quarters an old friend of the transport days--Harry Williams--he had been away on a long trek `up north' to look for some supposed mine of fabulous richness of which there had been vague and secret reports from natives.  He stayed with me for some days, and one evening after the bout of fever and ague had passed off and rest and good feeding had begun to pull him  round, he told us the story of their search.  It was a trip of much adventure, but it was the end of his story that interested me most; and that is all that need be told here.