a good deal of light on the methods adopted to import them. There is a regular code. Potatoes mean 'detonators,' cauliflower, 'rifles,' other vegetables stand for various explosives."
"That's very interesting," I commended.
"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,
