FOOTNOTES: 

[4] Colonel Frank Rhodes, Mr. G. Farrar, Mr. Hammond, and Mr. C. Leonard.

[5] Mr. Rhodes died in the spring of 1902.

[6] Now Colonel Stracey Clitheroe.

[7] Now Colonel Grenfell, 3rd Dragoon Guards.

[8] Now Major Beresford.

CHAPTER IV

JOHANNESBURG AND PRETORIA IN 1896

“Little white mice of chance,
Coats of wool and corduroy pants,
Gold and wine, women and sin,
I’ll give to you, if you let me in
To the glittering house of chance.”

                American Dice Incantation.

At Johannesburg we were the guests of Mr. Abe Bailey at Clewer Lodge.  Our host, however, was unfortunately absent, “detained” in the precincts of the gaol at Pretoria, although allowed out on bail.  In the same house he had entertained in 1891 my brother Randolph[9] and his friend Captain G. Williams, Royal Horse Guards, on their way to Mashonaland.  One of my first visitors was another fellow-traveller of theirs, Mr. H.C.  Perkins, the celebrated American mining expert.  This gentleman was a great friend of Randolph’s, and he spoke most touchingly of his great attachment to the latter, and of his grief at his death.  For five years Mr. and Mrs. Perkins had lived in Johannesburg, where they both enjoyed universal respect, and their approaching departure, to settle once more in America, was deplored by all.  Considered to be the highest mining expert of the day, Mr. Perkins had seen the rise of the Rand since its infancy, and he had been shrewd enough to keep out of the late agitation and its disturbances.  Under his guidance we saw the sights of the towns:  the far-famed Rand Club; the Market Square, crammed, almost for the first time since the so-called “revolution,” with trek-waggons and their Boer drivers; the much-talked-of “Gold-fields” offices, barred and barricaded, which had been the headquarters of the Reform Committee; the Standard Bank, where the smuggled arms had been kept; and finally the Exchange and the street enclosed by iron chains, where the stock markets were principally carried on.  We were also shown the interior of the Stock Exchange itself, though we were warned that it was scarcely worth a visit at that time of depression.  We heard the “call of the shares,” which operation only took twenty minutes, against nearly two hours during the time of the recent boom.  Instead of the listless, bored-looking individuals below us, who only assumed a little excitement when the revolving, clock-like machine denoted any popular share, we were told that a few months ago every available space had been crowded by excited buyers and sellers—­some without hats, others in their shirt-sleeves, almost knocking one another over in their desire to do business.  Those must indeed have been palmy days, when the money so lightly made was correspondingly lightly spent; when champagne replaced the usual whisky-split at the Rand Club, and on all sides was to be heard the old and well-known formula, “Here’s luck,” as the successful speculator toasted an old friend or a newcomer.