George Manville Fenn
"A Dash from Diamond City"
Chapter One.
Three White Ones.
Tick, tap, tap—tap, ticker—ticker—tapper—tapper; tick—teck, tacker—tap went a typewriting machine, and scratch—scratch went two pens, in one of the minor offices connected with that vast wealth-producing industry known as the De Beers Diamond-Mines, where, seated at desk and table, three young men were hard at work, one manipulating the typewriter, one writing a letter, and the third making entries in a fat leather-covered book with broad bands and a big letter distinguishing it upon the back.
The words: “minor office in a diamond-mine,” naturally suggest wealth, Turkey carpets, french-polished furniture, and plate-glass; but the office in question was an example of simplicity, for its walls were mud and its roof corrugated-iron, while the roughness of the interior was only slightly softened down by a lining of what a carpenter calls matchboarding. In spite of its vast wealth, Kimberley is still little better than a moving camp, and holds out few prospects of ever becoming a magnificent town.
The interior of that newly-created office, allowing for the tapping of the typewriter and the scratching of the pens, was very quiet; but outside there was the strange sound produced by the mingling of voices with trampling feet and the distant whirr and rattle of machinery, till a clock began striking, followed by the clangour of a bell, and then all was changed.
“Time!” shouted the manipulator of the typewriter, springing from his stool to stretch his wiry six feet of length, at the same time spoiling a keen, manly face by distorting it with a yawn. The clerk who had been bending over the thick account-book ceased making entries, applied the blotting-paper, and closed the book with a bang, to turn round and display a pink-and-white, fat, smooth face, disfigured by nearly white eyebrows and lashes and curly whitey-brown hair. As he stood up he yawned and wrinkled his fat face a good deal; but the wrinkles died down into a smile which gave him a meek and mild appearance, the said smile being doubled directly after by his taking a little round shaving-glass out of his desk, propping it up by means of a contrivance behind, and then, by the help of a pocket-comb, proceeding to rearrange his hair, which, from the resistance offered, appeared to be full of knots and kinks.
The last to leave his desk was a manly-looking young fellow who appeared to be twenty, but who possessed documentary evidence that he was only eighteen. He neither stretched nor yawned, but drew himself up with a sigh of relief, and, after carefully locking up the letters he had written, he turned to the typist.
“Going out, Ingleborough?” he said.
“Yes; I shan’t be long. I must go on to the compound. Back in—”
“Five minutes?” dashed in his questioner.
“No; that I shan’t,” said the young man smartly; “but I will not exceed fifteen. Get out my rifle and belts, West.”
“All right,” was the reply, and as the door closed the young clerk crossed to a plain deal cupboard in the corner of the office, threw open the broad door, and revealed an arms-rack with some twenty of the newest-pattern rifles standing ready for use, and bayonets and bandoliers to match each breech-loading piece.
A peculiarly innocent baby-like look came over his companion’s face as he opened his desk and took out a little flat oblong mahogany case and said softly:
“Going to play at soldiers again? Only to think of Oliver West, Esquire, learning to shoulder arms and right-about face when a drill-sergeant barks at him.”
“Look here, Anson,” cried the young fellow warmly; “is that meant for a sneer?”
“Me sneer?” protested the plump-looking cherubic clerk. “Oh dear, no! I never indulge in sneers, and I never quarrel, and I never fight.”
“Humph!” ejaculated the rifle-bearer.
“I only think it’s all braggadocio nonsense for a lot of fellows to go wasting time drilling and volunteering when they might acquire such an accomplishment as this.”
As the speaker addressed his warlike companion he tapped the lid of his case, opened it, and revealed three joints of a flute lying snugly in purple-velvet fittings, and, taking them out, he proceeded to lick the ends all round in a tomcat sort of way, and screwed them together, evidently with a great deal of satisfaction to himself, for he smiled softly.
“Bah! It’s a deal more creditable to be prepared to defend the place against the Boers. Better join us, Anson.”
“Me? No, thank you, unless you start a band and make me bandmaster.”
“We shall want no music,” said West, laughing. “The Boers will give us plenty of that with their guns.”
“Nonsense! It’s all fudge,” said the flautist, smiling. “There’ll be no fighting, and even if there were I’m not going to shoulder a rifle. I should be afraid to let it off.”
“You?” cried West, staring into the smooth, plump face. “Why, you once told me you were a first-rate shot.”
“Did I? Well, it was only my fun,” said the clerk, placing his flute to his lips and beginning to run dumb scales up and down, skilfully enough as to the fingering, but he did not produce a sound.
“I say, don’t you begin to blow!” cried West, looking rather contemptuously at the musician and forcing himself to restrain a laugh at the grotesque round face with the eyes screwed-up into narrow slits.
“Oh, no one will come here now,” was the reply. “I get so little practice. I shall blow gently.” Directly afterwards he began to run up and down, playing through some exercise with which he was familiar extremely softly; and then by way of a change he began what is technically known as “double-tonguing.”
This was too much for Oliver West. He had stood rubbing first one rifle and then the other with a slightly-oiled rag to get rid of specks of rust or dust, every now and then stealing a glance at the absurdly screwed-up face, feeling the while that a good hearty laugh would do him good, but determined to maintain his composure so as not to hurt the performer’s feelings. But the double-tonguing was too much.
