locusts. We are going to have a big 'grass-burning' to-night, and smoke out whatever remain of the pests."

"Oh, Lieutenant Wortley, please let George stay with us for the burning! We always have such fine good times at a big grass-burning!" vehemently pleaded Petrus. "And I'll promise to ride home with him on Ferus, afterwards, and we'll—oh, what is that?"

Z-z-zip! Wh-i-zz! A great shower of gleaming Zulu assegais flew through the air over the cart.

Z-z-zip! came another past George's head. They hit the car with a metallic sound, glanced off and fell to earth.

"The Zulus! the Zulus!" cried the Englishman, seizing George close in his arms. "They have threatened our lives! The cowards! They are taking advantage of the dark. Quick, George, get down out of sight in the bottom of the cart! I'll fire at the villains!"

Bang! Boom! Bang! sounded the lieutenant's rifle.

"THE LIEUTENANT AGAIN TOOK CAREFUL AIM AND FIRED"

The Zulus yelled, and quickly sent another shower of assegais. Petrus lowered his head. One landed heavily in the flying cart close to his feet. It was six feet long—its sharp iron head or blade being over a foot long in itself. An ox-tail ornamented the opposite end of the great spear. Already the darkening flight of locusts had passed on, leaving the sky bright and clear. Petrus gave one quick backward glance. One Zulu had fallen. The others were in hot pursuit.

Uncle Abraham lashed the horses into a wild gallop. The lieutenant again took careful aim and fired. The Zulus went tumbling back into the tall grass.

"They're afraid of our fire-arms! Hurrah!" cried Petrus in joy. "Hurrah! George, you're safe! They are gone!"

"Yes, thank heavens! We've escaped their poisoned assegais so far—the savages! I know that giant Zulu who was in the lead. I know him well. He is Dirk," continued the lieutenant. "He looked me straight in the eye, as he passed close and drew his assegai. No, Petrus, I'll take George home to-night. He's safer there. George thanks you just the same, but he has had a terrible fright. I don't mean to let my boy out of my sight."

The lieutenant lifted George—white and trembling—into his arms.

"Why, Lieutenant Wortley, should the Zulus threaten your lives?" demanded Mr. Joubert, as mystified as was Petrus.

"Yes, tell us," added Petrus—in suspense to hear.

"As you may know," began the Englishman, glad to make explanations, "my appointment as collector of His Majesty's 'Hunt-tax' followed the peace negotiations upon the close of the war. My first commission was to the Kalahari Desert—that great 'Thirst-land'—as it is called, covering thousands of miles of the most desolate, sandy, waterless, tract of land under the heavens. There—in that fearful spot—men, horses, and oxen are constantly dying of thirst—their skeletons by thousands strew the great hot sand stretches. George's mother had returned with him to our old home in England. After her death there, George's Aunt Edith brought the boy as far as Cape Town to me. I protested, but George—hungering for adventure—begged to be taken along with me. Finally, I consented.

"It was my official duty to collect the 'Hunt-tax.' I found that many of the savages of this God-forsaken region had never before paid a 'tax' of any kind. They rebelled. Among such was this giant Zulu—Dirk. He promptly refused to pay, although his horses were overloaded with the finest skins, ivory, and the longest koodoo horns I have ever seen.

"It was the climax of impudence when he disputed my authority and tried to argue with me. I had him promptly disarmed and jailed by two of my native police, afterwards ordering him put at convict work. He was set at well-digging, under guard, in the desert. It was a rough job, but my police accomplished it. Then it was that Dirk flung out that threat against our lives. There was something in his look and voice that made my blood run cold. To this day the mere sight of him makes me apprehensive. The threat was aimed at George as much as at me. George is always begging me to take him home to England. I may decide to do it."

"Oh, George dear! Don't you leave us! Never shall that Zulu harm you! I am a good marksman. I would shoot him before he should harm you! Never fear, George, I will be your protector always," vehemently cried the Boer boy.

Uncle Abraham shook his head gravely. They had reached the great farm. Bidding their friends adieu, Uncle Abraham and Petrus turned their attention to the locusts. They had settled themselves over the whole two miles of Uncle Abraham's tender, young mealie-fields in layers ten to twelve inches deep, and were busily mowing down the juicy stalks acre by acre.

CHAPTER II
AT "WELTEFREDEN"

Spring had passed. It was sweltering hot by noonday in the Transvaal, for the midsummer days of December had come. Christmas, with its tennis, golf, and gay "cross-country" riding parties, was but a few short weeks off. Petrus had missed George's visits to "Weltefreden"[7] greatly. It was a long time since he had been there.

At first the terrible scare from the Zulus had thrown him into a violent fever, from which he had not recovered for weeks. After that the lieutenant had kept him closely at home. Of course Petrus had visited him there. He had also often sent him over good things from the farm, by Mutla, his favorite Kafir. Now that George was better Petrus half hoped each day to see him at the farm.

The Joubert household arose early mornings. Aunt Johanna always had breakfast by six. Then there was an hour's rest in the hottest part of the day, right after dinner. Petrus was the first one to be up and out enjoying the balmy morning air—watching the Kafir herders feeding the flocks, milking the cows, yoking the oxen, and driving the horses and sheep off to pasture. The vast farm, with its miles of waving grain and mealie-fields, and rolling pasture lands, was one of the best cultivated in all the Transvaal. It was a model farm.

The original little "wattle-and-daub" cottage, with its windows half hidden under creepers, was gone. In it Petrus had been born. Many years ago it had been replaced by a more pretentious homestead. Uncle Abraham had prospered. His huge granaries were always well-filled, and his Kafir farm boys, at the kraals, just beyond the mealie-fields, numbered more than a hundred. It was their work to milk the cows, care for the beasts, and attend to the hardest work of the farm.

Every morning, after breakfast, Uncle Abraham assembled the whole family for prayers, which Grandfather Joubert read with a simple impressiveness. Then a hymn was sung, and the family separated to take up their various tasks for the day.

It was Petrus' especial duty to mend all the broken-down wagons, make the halters and head-stalls for the ponies and horses, and, when hippopotamus hide could be procured, to cut and make the long lashes for the ox-whips. These were usually twenty-five feet long. Sometimes Mutla,