case, with the W.D. and arrow impressed upon its lid. They were secured with a simple clip that could be knocked open with a rifle butt. The British army always learned its lesson the hard way. They had learned this one at isandhlwana, the Hill of the Little Hand, on the frontier of Zululand when Lord Chelmsford left 1,000 men at his base camp, while he took a flying column to bring the Zulu indunas to battle. Avoiding contact with the column, the indunas doubled back and stormed the base camp.
Only when the swarming imp is broke through the perimeter did the quartermasters realize that Chelmsford had taken the keys for the ammunition chests with him. Isazi, Ralph's little Zulu driver, had given him an eye-witness account of the end.
'They were tearing at the boxes with axes, with bayonets and with their bare hands. They were swearing and screaming with rage and chagrin when we brought the assegais to them, and at the last they tried to defend themselves with their empty rifles.' Isazi's eyes had gone misty with the memory, the way an old man recalls a lost love. 'I tell you, little Hawk, they were brave men and it was a beautiful stabbing.' Nobody could be certain how many Englishmen had died at the Little Hand, for it was almost a year before Chelmsford retook the field, but it was one of the most terrible disasters of British military history, and immediately after it the War Office redesigned their ammunition chests.
Now the fact that the.303 ammunition was packed in these WD chests was some indication of how deep was the understanding between Mr. Rhodes and the colonial secretary in Whitehall. However, the bulk packets had to be broken down and repacked in waxed paper. One hundred rounds to the packet, then these had to be soldered into tin sheets before going into the oil drums. It was an onerous task and Ralph was pleased to escape for a few hours from the workshops of the De Beers Consolidated Mines Company where it was being done.
Aaron Fagan was waiting for him in his office, with his coat on and his Derby hat in his hand.
'You are becoming a secretive fellow, Ralph,' he accused.
'Couldn't you have given me some idea of what you expect?' 'You will learn that soon enough,' Ralph promised, and put a cheroot between his lips. 'All I want to know from you is that this fellow is trustworthy, and discreet.' 'He is the eldest son of my own sister,' Aaron bridled, and Ralph struck a Vesta to the end of the cheroot to calm him.
'That is all very well, but can he keep his mouth shut?' 'I will stake my life on it.' 'You may have to,' Ralph told him drily. 'Well, let us go to visit this paragon.' David Silver was a plump young man with a pink scrubbed complexion, gold-rimmed pince-nez and his hair glossy with brilliantine and parted down the centre so that his scalp gleamed in the division like the scar of a sword cut He deferred courteously to his Uncle Aaron, and went to pains to make certain that both his guests were comfortable, that their chairs were arranged with the light from the windows falling from behind and that each of them had an ashtray beside him and a cup of tea in his hand.
'It's orange pekoe, he pointed out modestly, as he settled beside his desk. Then he placed his fingertips together, pursed his lips primly and looked expectantly at Ralph.
While Ralph briefly explained his requirements, he nodded his head brightly and made little sucking sounds of encouragement.
'Mr. Ballantyne - 'he kept nodding like a mandarin doll when Ralph had finished' that is what we stockbrokers ' he spread his hand deprecatingly, -'in our jargon call a 'bear position' or 'selling short'. It is quite a commonplace transaction.' Aaron Fagan squirmed a little in his chair, and glanced apologetically at Ralph. 'David, I think Mr. Ballantyne knows-' 'No, no,' Ralph raised a hand to Aaron.'please let Mr. Silver continue. I am sure his discourse will be enlightening.' His expression was solemn, but his eyes twinkled with amusement. The irony was lost on David Silver and he accepted Ralph's invitation.
'It is an entirely short-term speculative contract. I always make a point of mentioning this to any of my clients who contemplate entering into one. To be entirely truthful, Mr. Ballantyne, I do not approve of this speculation. I always feel that the stock exchange is a venue for legitimate investment, a market where capital can meet and mate with legitimate enterprise. It should not have been made into a bookmakers' turf where sportsmen bet on dark horses.' 'That is a very noble thought,' Ralph agreed.
'I am glad you see it that way.' David Silver puffed out his cheeks pompously. 'However, to return to the operation of selling shares short. The client enters the market and offers to sell shares of a specified company which he does not possess, at a price below the current market price, for delivery at some future date, usually one to three months ahead.' 'Yes,' Ralph nodded solemnly. 'I think I follow so far.' 'Naturally, the expectation of the bear operator is that the shares will fall considerably in value before he is obliged to deliver them to the purchaser. From his point of view the larger the fall in value the greater will be his profit.' 'Ah!'said Ralph. 'An easy way to make money.' 'On the other hand' David Silver's plump features became stern. - 'should the shares rise in value the bear operator will incur considerable losses. He will be forced to re- enter the market and buy shares at the inflated prices to make good his delivery to the purchaser, and naturally he will be paid only the previously agreed price.' 'Naturally!' 'Now you can see why I try to discourage my clients from engaging in these dealings.' 'Your uncle assured me that you were a prudent man.' David Silver looked smug. 'Mr. Ballantyne, I think you should know that there is a buoyant mood in the market. I have heard it rumoured that some of the Witwatersrand companies will be reporting highly elevated profits this quarter. In my view this is the time to buy gold shares, not to sell them.' 'Mr. Silver, I am a terrible pessimist.' 'Very well.' David Silver sighed with the air of a superior being inured to the intractability of the common man. 'Will you tell me exactly what you have in mind, please, Mr. Ballantyne?' 'I want to sell the shares of two companies short,' Ralph told him. 'Consolidated Goldfields and the British South Africa Company.' An air of vast melancholy came over David Silver. 'You have chosen the strongest companies on the board, those are Mr. Rhodes' enterprises. Did you have a figure in mind, Mr. Ballantyne? The minimum lot that can be traded is one hundred shares,-' 'Two hundred thousand, 'said Ralph mildly.
'Two hundred thousand pounds! 'gasped David Silver.
'Shares,' Ralph corrected him.
'Mr. Ballantyne.' Silver had paled. 'BSA is standing at twelve pounds and Consolidated at eight. If you sell two hundred thousand shares well, that is a transaction of two million pounds.' 'No, no! 'Ralph shook his head. 'You misunderstand me.' 'Thank the good Lord for that.' A little colour flowed back into David Silver's chubby cheeks.
'I meant not two hundred thousand in total, but two hundred thousand in each company. That is four million pounds' worth altogether.' David Silver sprang to his feet with such alacrity that his chair flew back against the wall with a crash, and for a moment it seemed that he might try to escape out into the street.
'But,' he blubbered, 'but-' And then he could think of no further protest. His pince-nez misted and his lower lip stuck out like a sulky child's.
'Sit down,' Ralph ordered gently, and he sank back miserably into his chair.
'I will have to ask -you to make a deposit,' Silver made one last effort.
'How much will you need?' 'Forty thousand pounds.' Ralph opened his cheque-book on the edge of the desk, and took one of David Silver's pens from the rack. The squeak of the nib was the only sound in the hot little office, until Ralph sat back and fanned the cheque to dry the ink.
'There is just one thing more,' he said. 'Nobody outside these four walls nobody is ever to know that I am the principal in this transaction.' 'You have my word.' 'or your testicles,' Ralph warned him, as he leaned close to hand him the cheque, and though he smiled, his eyes were such a cold green that David Silver shivered, and he felt a sharp pang of anticipation in his threatened parts.
It was a typical high veld Boer homestead set on a rocky ridge above an undulating treeless plain of silver grass. The roof was of galvanized corrugated iron which had begun to rust through in patches. The house was surrounded by wide verandas, and the whitewash was discoloured and flaking from the wall. There was a windmill on a skeletal tower behind the house. The vanes blurred against the pale cloudless sky, spinning in the dry dusty wind, and at each weary crank of the plunger, a cupful of cloudy green water spilled into the circular concrete cistern beside the kitchen door.
There was no attempt at a garden or lawn. A dozen scrawny speckled fowls scratched at the bare baked earth, or perched disconsolately on the derelict Cape wagon and the other ruined equipment that always seemed to ornament the yard of every Boer homestead. On the side of the prevailing wind stood a tall Australian eucalyptus tree with the old bark hanging in tatters from the silver trunk like the skin of a moulting serpent. In its scant shade were tethered eight sturdy brown ponies.
As Ralph dismounted below the veranda, a pack of mongrel hounds came snapping and snarling about his boots, and he scattered them yelping and howling with a few kicks and a hissing cut from his hippo-hide sjambok.
'U is laat , meneer.' A man had come out onto the veranda. He was in shirtsleeves with braces holding up the baggy brown trousers that left his bare ankles exposed. On his feet, he wore rawhide velskoen without socks.
'Jammer,' Ralph apologized for being late. Using the simplified form of Dutch, which the Boer called the taal, the language.
