Finished | Page 6

and a common
flannel shirt, for he wore no coat, I guessed at once that he was
English-born.
For a while neither of us said anything after the taciturn habit of our
people even on the veld, and indeed I was fully occupied in listening to
the truculent talk of a little party of mounted Boers behind us. I put my
pipe into my mouth and began to hunt for my tobacco, taking the
opportunity to show the hilt of my revolver, so that these men might
see that I was armed. It was not to be found, I had left it in the wagon.
"If you smoke Boer tobacco," said the stranger, "I can help you," and I
noted that the voice was as pleasant as the face, and knew at once that
the owner of it was a gentleman.
"Thank you, Sir. I never smoke anything else," I answered, whereon he
produced from his trousers pocket a pouch made of lion skin of
unusually dark colour.
"I never saw a lion as black as this, except once beyond Buluwayo on
the borders of Lobengula's country," I said by way of making

conversation.
"Curious," answered the stranger, "for that's where I shot the brute a
few months ago. I tried to keep the whole skin but the white ants got at
it."
"Been trading up there?" I asked.
"Nothing so useful," he said. "Just idling and shooting. Came to this
country because it was one of the very few I had never seen, and have
only been here a year. I think I have had about enough of it, though.
Can you tell me of any boats running from Durban to India? I should
like to see those wild sheep in Kashmir."
I told him that I did not know for certain as I had never taken any
interest in India, being an African elephant-hunter and trader, but I
thought they did occasionally. Just then Robinson passed by and called
to me--
"They'll be here presently, Quatermain, but Sompesu isn't coming
himself."
"Does your name happen to be Allan Quatermain?" asked the stranger.
"If so I have heard plenty about you up in Lobengula's country, and of
your wonderful shooting."
"Yes," I replied, "but as for the shooting, natives always exaggerate."
"They never exaggerated about mine," he said with a twinkle in his eye.
"Anyhow I am very glad to see you in the flesh, though in the spirit you
rather bored me because I heard too much of you. Whenever I made a
particularly, bad miss, my gun-bearer, who at some time seems to have
been yours, would say, 'Ah! if only it had been the Inkosi Macumazahn,
how different would have been the end!' My name is Anscombe,
Maurice Anscombe," he added rather shyly. (Afterwards I discovered
from a book of reference that he was a younger son of Lord Mountford,
one of the richest peers in England.)
Then we both laughed and he said--
"Tell me, Mr. Quatermain, if you will, what those Boers are saying
behind us. I am sure it is something unpleasant, but as the only Dutch I
know is 'Guten Tag' and 'Vootsack' (Good-day and Get out) that takes
me no forwarder."
"It ought to," I answered, "for the substance of their talk is that they
object to be 'vootsacked' by the British Government as represented by
Sir Theophilus Shepstone. They are declaring that they won the land

'with their blood' and want to keep their own flag flying over it."
"A very natural sentiment," broke in Anscombe.
"They say that they wish to shoot all damned Englishmen, especially
Shepstone and his people, and that they would make a beginning now
were they not afraid that the damned English Government, being
angered, would send thousands of damned English rooibatjes, that is,
red-coats, and shoot them out of evil revenge."
"A very natural conclusion," laughed Anscombe again, "which I should
advise them to leave untested. Hush! Here comes the show."
I looked and saw a body of blackcoated gentlemen with one officer in
the uniform of a Colonel of Engineers, advancing slowly. I remember
that it reminded me of a funeral procession following the corpse of the
Republic that had gone on ahead out of sight. The procession arrived
upon the stoep opposite to us and began to sort itself out, whereon the
English present raised a cheer and the Boers behind us cursed audibly.
In the middle appeared an elderly gentleman with whiskers and a stoop,
in whom I recognized Mr. Osborn, known by the Kaffirs as Malimati,
the Chief of the Staff. By his side was a tall young fellow, yourself, my
friend, scarcely more than a lad then, carrying papers. The rest stood to
right and left in a formal line. You