The Man in the Brown Suit

cauliflower, ‘rifles,’ other vegetables stand for various explosives.”
“That’s very interesting,” I commented.
“More than that, Sir Eustace, we have every reason to believe that the man who runs
the whole show, the directing genius of the affair, is at this minute in Johannesburg.”
He stared at me so hard that I began to fear that he suspected me of being the man. I
broke out into a cold perspiration at the thought, and began to regret that I had ever
conceived the idea of inspecting a miniature revolution at first hand.
“No trains are running from Jo’burg to Pretoria,” he continued. “But I can arrange to
send you over by private car. In case you should be stopped on the way, I can provide
you with two separate passes, one issued by the Union Government, and the other stating
that you are an English visitor who has nothing whatsoever to do with the Union.”
“One for your people, and one for the strikers, eh?”
“Exactly.”
The project did not appeal to me—I know what happens in a case of that kind. You get
flustered and mix the things up. I should hand the wrong pass to the wrong person, and it
would end in my being summarily shot by a bloodthirsty rebel, or one of the supporters of
law and order whom I notice guarding the streets wearing bowler hats and smoking
pipes, with rifles tucked carelessly under their arms. Besides, what should I do with
myself in Pretoria? Admire the architecture of the Union buildings, and listen to the
echoes of the shooting round Johannesburg? I should be penned up there God knows how
long. They’ve blown up the railway line already, I hear. It isn’t even as if one could get a
drink there. They put the place under martial law two days ago.
“My dear fellow,” I said, “you don’t seem to realize that I’m studying conditions on
the Rand. How the devil am I going to study them from Pretoria? I appreciate your care
for my safety, but don’t worry about me, I shall be all right.”

---

“I warn you, Sir Eustace, that the food question is already serious.”
“A little fasting will improve my figure,” I said, with a sigh.
We were interrupted by a telegram being handed to me. I read it with amazement.
“Anne is safe. Here with me at Kimberley. Suzanne Blair.”
I don’t think I ever really believed in the annihilation of Anne. There is something
peculiarly indestructible about that young woman—she is like the patent balls that one
gives to terriers. She has an extraordinary knack of turning up smiling. I still don’t see
why it was necessary for her to walk out of the hotel in the middle of the night in order to
get to Kimberley. There was no train, anyway. She must have put on a pair of angel’s
wings and flown there. And I don’t suppose she will ever explain. Nobody does—to me. I
always have to guess. It becomes monotonous after a while. The exigencies of journalism
are at the bottom of it, I suppose. “How I shot the rapids,” by our Special
Correspondent.
I refolded the telegram and got rid of my Governmental friend. I don’t like the
prospect of being hungry, but I’m not alarmed for my personal safety. Smuts is perfectly
capable of dealing with the revolution. But I would give a considerable sum of money for
a drink! I wonder if Pagett will have the sense to bring a bottle of whisky with him when
he arrives tomorrow?
I put on my hat and went out, intending to buy a few souvenirs. The curio shops in
Jo’burg are rather pleasant. I was just studying a window full of imposing karosses,