A most authentic-seeming book about the difficulties a pair of young Britons faced when they go to South Africa to set up an ostrich farm on the dry and empty veldt.
here, deep down from cracks of the granite rock, the spring gurgled out.
Only a part ran for a few yards, and then disappeared in the sand, without once reaching to where the sun blazed down.
Joe Emson shouted once more, but Dyke would not turn his head.
"Let him follow me if he wants me," muttered the boy. "He isn't half so hot as I am."
Hot or not hot, the big fellow took off his broad Panama hat, gave his head a vicious rub, replaced it, and turned to shout again. "Jack! Ahoy, Jack!"
There was no reply to this, for Kaffir Jack lay behind the house in a very hot place, fast asleep upon the sand, with his dark skin glistening in the sunshine, the pigment within keeping off the blistering sunburn which would have followed had the skin been white.
"I shall have to go after him," muttered Joe Emson; and, casting off the feeling of languor which had impelled him to call others instead of acting himself, he braced himself up, left the scorching iron house behind, and trot
A surprisingly good read, with a surfeit of action and chills. A few exaggerations, mostly forgivable, and an unfortunately-truncated ending but otherwise fine for teen or adult.