Rhodes, with a supreme carelessness in regard to money, with an indifference to details which left his mind free for the working of a few main ideas, had no idea how many cheques he gave on the spur of the moment to De Lancy Scovel in this month or in that, in this year or in that, for this thing or for that—­cheques written very often on the backs of envelopes, on the white margin of a newspaper, on the fly-leaf of a book or a blank telegraph form.  The Master Man was so stirred by half-contemptuous humour at the sycophancy and snobbery of his vain slave, who could make a salad out of anything edible, that, caring little what men were, so long as they did his work for him, he once wrote a cheque for two thousand pounds on the starched cuff of his henchman’s “biled shirt” at a dinner prepared for his birthday.

So it was that, with the marrow-bones thrown to him, De Lancy Scovel came to a point where he could follow Wallstein’s and Rhodes’ lead financially, being privy to their plans, through eavesdropping on the conferences of his chiefs.  It came as a surprise to his superiors that one day’s chance discovery showed De Lancy Scovel to be worth fifty thousand pounds; and from that time on they used him for many a purpose in which it was expedient their own hands should not appear.  They felt confident that a man who could so carefully and secretly build up his own fortune had a gift which could be used to advantage.  A man who could be so subterranean in his own affairs would no doubt be equally secluded in their business.  Selfishness would make him silent.  And so it was that “the dude” of the camp and the kraal, the factotum, who in his time had brushed Rhodes’ clothes when he brushed his own, after the Kaffir servant had messed them about, came to be a millionaire and one of the Partners.  For him South Africa had no charms.  He was happy in London, or at his country-seat in Leicestershire, where he followed the hounds with a temerity which was at base vanity; where he gave the county the best food to be got outside St. Petersburg or Paris; where his so-called bachelor establishment was cared for by a coarse, gray-haired housekeeper who, the initiated said, was De Lancy’s South African wife, with a rooted objection to being a lady or “moving in social circles”; whose pleasure lay in managing this big household under De Lancy’s guidance.  There were those who said they had seen her brush a speck of dust from De Lancy’s coat-collar, as she emerged from her morning interview with him; and others who said they had seen her hidden in the shrubbery listening to the rather flaccid conversation of her splendid poodle of a master.

There were others who had climbed to success in their own way, some by happy accident, some by a force which disregarded anything in their way, and some by sheer honest rough merit, through which the soul of the true pioneer shone.