but was now a black and lumpy composition, evil-smelling and swarming
with vermin, the good man never disappointed his petitioners.

His fame as a philanthropist spread, and the rows of women in his
back-yard increased. While engaged in serving them he listened to
their tales of hardship and privation, watched their suffering faces,
made mental notes of the harrowing details of each case.

There was an epidemic of "black measles" going through the town at the
time in the overcrowded quarters of the "Boer refugees," as they were
called. Scarcely a mother appealed to him who had not lost one or more
children, in many cases all she possessed, within a few weeks.

Now, Mr. Hattingh would no doubt have concerned himself with the
peaceful occupation of his bakery until the end of the war (for he
had his hands more than full), had his compassionate heart not been
wrung beyond endurance by the scenes he was forced to witness every
day. His conscience smote him and he reproached himself with being in
town when duty should have called him to the side of his
fellow-countrymen, struggling against such fearful odds in their
efforts to preserve their independence.

Bitterness filled his soul.

What religious and conscientious scruples he still had against
violating his oath of neutrality he laid before his most trusted
friends, to be met with the same answer everywhere, "The oath of
neutrality is null and void, a mere formality," as the enemy had
declared in connection with the recruiting of National Scouts from the
ranks of the Transvaal burghers.

At this critical moment it was not to be wondered at that he should
have accepted Captain Naude's appointment of him on the Secret
Committee, not only without hesitation, but in a spirit of intense
satisfaction.

Henceforth the mind of the baker dwelt with ceaseless activity on the
problems of the Boer espionage, while his busy fingers plied the brown
and white loaves of bread.

Inspired by patriotism, driven by love and compassion, he became in
time the most resourceful, the most ingenious, and the most trusted of
Boer spies.

One evening, soon after dusk, while he was engaged in his bakery, he
heard a timid knock at the door, which he opened, fully expecting to
see a customer.

To his surprise he found there a Boer with a long, unkempt beard--a
"backvelder," or, as we call it, a "takhaar," of the most pronounced
type.

The man withdrew into the shadows as the door opene