it
anywhere in the range of the Seven Seas. And when they catch Dr. Jim,
it'll be ten times worse. Yes, it'll be at Doornkop, unless-- But, no,
they'll track him, trap him, get him now. Johannesburg wasn't ready.
Only yesterday I had a cable that--" he stopped short ... "but they
weren't ready. They hadn't guns enough, or something; and Englishmen
aren't good conspirators, not by a damned sight! Now it'll be the old
Majuba game all over again. You'll see."

"It certainly will set things back. Your last state will be worse than
your first," remarked Stafford.

Rudyard Byng drained off a glass of brandy and water at a gulp almost,
as Stafford watched him with inward adverse comment, for he never
touched wine or spirits save at meal-time, and the between-meal swizzle
revolted his aesthetic sense. Byng put down the glass very slowly,
gazing straight before him for a moment without speaking. Then he
looked round. There was no one very near, though curious faces were
turned in his direction, as the grim news of the Raid was passed from
mouth to mouth. He came up close to Stafford and touched his chest with
a firm forefinger.

"Every egg in the basket is broken, Stafford. I'm sure of that. Dr.
Jim'll never get in now; and there'll be no oeufs a la coque for
breakfast. But there's an omelette to be got out of the mess, if the
chef doesn't turn up his nose too high. After all, what has brought
things to this pass? Why, mean, low tyranny and injustice. Why, just a
narrow, jealous race-hatred which makes helots of British men. Simple
farmers, the sentimental newspapers call them--simple Machiavellis in
veldschoen!" *

* A glossary of South African words will be found at the end of the
book.

Stafford nodded assent. "But England is a very conventional chef," he
replied. "She likes the eggs for her omelette broken in the orthodox
way."

"She's not so particular where the eggs come from, is she?"

Stafford smiled as he answered: "There'll be a good many people in
England who won't sleep to-night some because they want Jameson to get
in; some because they don't; but most because they're thinking of the
millions of British money locked up in the Rand, with Kruger standing
over it with a sjambak, which he'll use. Last night at the opera we had
a fine example of presence of mind, when a lady burst into flames on
the stage. That spirited South African prima donna, the Transvaal, is
in flames. I wonder if she really will be