And now I will make more notches, one for the house that is burnt, and one for the old Baas Croft, my own Baas, whom he is going to shoot, and one for Missie Bessie." And Jantje drew from his side his large white-handled hunting-knife and began to cut them then and there upon the hard wood of the stick.
Jess knew this knife of old.

It was Jantje's peculiar treasure, the chief joy of his narrow little heart.

He had brought it from a Zulu for a heifer which her uncle had given him in lieu of half a year's wage.
The Zulu had it from a half-caste whose kraal was beyond Delagoa Bay.
As a matter of fact it was a Somali knife, manufactured from the soft native steel which takes an edge like a razor, and with a handle cut out of the tusk of a hippopotamus.

For the rest, it was about a foot long, with three grooves running the length of the blade, and very heavy.
"Stop cutting notches, Jantje, and let me look at that knife." He obeyed, and put it into her hand.
"That knife would kill a man, Jantje," she said.
"Yes, yes," he answered: "no doubt it has killed many men." "It would kill Frank Muller, now, would it not ?" she went on, suddenly bending forward and fixing her dark eyes upon the little man's jaundiced orbs.
"Yah, yah," he said starting back, "it would kill him dead.

Ah! what a thing it would be to kill him!" he added, making a fierce sound, half grunt, half laugh.
"He killed your father, Jantje." "Yah, yah, he killed my father," said Jantje, his eyes beginning to roll with rage.
"He killed your mother." "Yah, he killed my mother," he repeated after her with eager ferocity.
"And your uncle.