Then came another pause, only interrupted by the slow scratching of a quill across the dirty paper, during which Hans nearly went to sleep; for the weather was very hot, and he was tired with his ride.
"There!" said the writer presently, gazing at his handwriting with an almost childish air of satisfaction, "that is done.

A curse on the man who invented writing! Our fathers did very well without it; why should not we?
Though, to be sure, it is useful for treaties with the Kafirs.
I don't believe you have told me right now about that 'Excellency,' nephew.

Well, it will have to serve.

When a man writes such a letter as that to the representative of the English Queen he needn't mind his spelling; it will be swallowed with the rest," and he leaned back in his chair and laughed softly.
"Now, _Meinheer_ Coetzee, what is it?
Ah, I know; the prisoners.

Well, what did you do ?" Hans told his story, and was rambling on when the General cut him short.
"So, cousin, so! You talk like an ox-waggon--rumble and creak and jolt, a devil of a noise and turning of wheels, but very little progress.