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Updated: June 21, 2025
"You're a queer lot," he said. "Marks an' that club-footed Malan comes along away before day an' wants their breakfast, an' gits it, an' lights out like the devil was a-follerin' 'em. An' when I asked 'em what they'd been doin', they up an' says they'd been fixin' lay-overs to ketch meddlers an' make fiddlers' wives ask questions.
At the end of this month Fouche's tranquil occupation of the north-east was at last disturbed, and he was driven out of it into the midlands, where he took refuge with the remains of his commando in the Camdeboo Mountains. Malan's men had already sought shelter in the same natural fortress. Malan was wounded and taken in a skirmish near Somerset East a few days before the general Boer surrender.
Malan is going to get his head punched quite independently of the general settlement. Although, as I have frequently stated, there were no legitimate grounds of complaint against the treatment of British regular officers while prisoners of war, the days I passed at Pretoria were the most monotonous and among the most miserable of my life.
In order to leave no room for the slightest misunderstanding, and to put an end to all false representations, the Government has summoned not only Commandant Cronjé, but also Commandant Potgieter, Commandant Malan, Field-Cornet Maartens, Assistant Field-Cornet Van Vuuren, and others, whose evidence appears to be of the greatest importance, and places the matter in a clear and plain light.
"You may toss, Quiller, heads or tails as you choose." I refused, and the man pitched the coin into the air, caught it in his hand and returned it to his pocket. "Perhaps you think you will be able to stop me," he said in a voice that came ringing over something in his throat. "We're three, and Malan is a better man than Jud." "He is not a better man," said I. "There is a way to tell," said he.
I saw Jud take a step towards Peppers, but he was too late. Lem Marks made a sign to Malan. The club-footed giant bounded on Peppers, pinned his arms to his sides, and lifting him from the table carried him toward the door. A fight in Roy's tavern was not a part of the plan of Hawk Rufe. For a moment the Parson's rage choked him, and he fought and sputtered.
The graze of a bullet on the knee would cause any horse to fall, and if he fell here, the rider was almost certain to sustain some serious injury if he were not killed. True, it was a piece of good shooting at fifty yards, but both Peppers and Malan could "bark" a squirrel at that distance.
Conducted by M. Malan, I went to the western quarter of Turin, where, amid the gardens and elegant mansions of the suburbs, workmen were digging the foundations of what was to be a spacious building.
On the other side was Malan and, sitting on the corner of the table, drinking cider from a stone pitcher, was Parson Peppers, the full brood. The Parson replaced the pitcher and wiped his dripping mouth on his sleeve. Then he burst out in a loud guffaw. "I quote Saint Paul," he cried. "Do thyself no harm, for we are all here."
It sat with me on the crupper as we rode into Roy's tavern. Marks and Peppers and the club-footed Malan were all moving somewhere in our front. Hawk Rufe was not intending to watch six hundred black cattle filing into his pasture with thirty dollars lost on every one of their curly heads.
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