e, both extremely agitated.

Miss Els speaks first:

"Oom Willie, you must please come to our house at once. My father is
very ill."

Oom Willie's heart sinks into his slippers.

This, the long-expected sign that their game is up, has come at last.

He hastens to the home of his friend.

When he learns the truth the case does not seem so hopeless after all
and he feels his courage returning.

"We must think of some plan with which to meet the police when they
come. Quick! There is not a moment to lose. They may be here at any
minute."

In an incredibly short time the officer's new saddle is buried in a
bag of coal, which is again sewn up and thrown into the back-yard,
while an old and worthless saddle is produced, Heaven only knows from
where, cut up into pieces and placed in a large basin of water on the
dining-room table.

"Now, Oom Gerrie," Mr. Botha says, as soon as he can find his breath,
"you are a shoemaker by trade, and this old saddle has been sent to
you by me to make shoes for my children."

"But you have not got any! and I have never made a shoe in my life!"

"Well, then, for my nieces and nephews. Never mind about your
ignorance. When any one comes in, remember you are just on the point
of beginning your work. I shall send you an old last when I get home."

A pocket-knife, a hammer, and a few nails scattered on the table
complete the shoemaker's outfit, and there he sits, with trembling
hands and spectacles on nose, far into the night, for does he not
expect the dreaded knock at his front door before the dawn of another
day?

Next morning Oom Willie raps smartly at the door and walks in
unceremoniously, to find Oom Gerrie just about to begin his work, as
with shaking hand he adjusts his spectacles.

"How is trade this morning?" he asks, with a jolly laugh, as he
settles himself on a chair to watch his friend's discomfiture. But Oom
Gerrie is not pleased at all. The trade is getting on Oom Gerrie's
nerves, and he takes no part in the hilarity around him.

Two days pass, three, four, and no English officer appears, no search
is made for contraband of war in Oom Gerrie's house; but every time
the door is opened or a footstep heard on the verandah, Oom Gerrie may
be found with one hand plunged in a basin of water, while with the
other he adjusts his spectacles.

Poor Oom Gerrie!

He gives up his trade in despair at last, for after all it does not
pay, but as long as the old man lives he w