Chapter III (4)

William knew the barman, who had been at Eton with his elder brother. Men find strange jobs in Africa in the process of reaching their proper level. I must add that in course of time that same barman bought the bar--and many other things besides--and ultimately represented his district on the Legislative Council.

At the moment of William's entry the barman was busy, so the youngster edged his way in between the wall and the brawny back of a corduroyed transport-rider, intending to wait quietly until he could catch the barman's eye.

The place was thick with the fumes of strong drink and tobacco smoke--Boer tobacco smoke. Of all the unlovely habits which men acquire, that of smoking Boer tobacco is the most trying to other people. I know, because I used to smoke it once, and I have seen it empty an Underground railway carriage at every station.

But William did not smoke, neither did he drink strong drink; he merely wanted to have a talk to the man his brother fagged for. But, on reaching the bar, he unintentionally jogged the transport-rider's arm and spilt some of his liquor.

"Who the hell are you shovin'?"

"Sorry."

"Sorry, are you? Yer bloomin' tailor's model."

The barman's chief asset was a quick ear and a keen sense of rising trouble. He was at the end of the counter in a moment.

"Hullo, Bill. Upset Rogers' drink, have you? Well, both have a drink at my expense. This boy is a friend of mine, Rogers."

"Well, Jimmy, as he's a friend of yours I'll overlook the accident--and I will. Mine's a gin and tonic; what's the boy goin' to drink?"

Before William could explain that he didn't drink, the barman said: "I know his poison, don't I, Bill?" following this up with a heavy wink.

"Mr. John Rogers--Mr. William Blake."

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Blake. Put it here."

The pair shook hands.

The barman pushed two glasses forward--one, containing gin, towards Rogers, and the other, lime-juice, for Blake. He took something out a bottle under the counter for himself, gave Rogers a small tonic, and split a small soda with William.

"Here's fun," said Rogers.

"Chin, chin," said Jimmy the barman.

The boy nodded gravely at each. They drank.

"Come on, let's have another," said Rogers. "Same as before for me, but not quite so much of your bloomin' tonic, Jimmy. Spoils the gin."

No sooner were the drinks poured out than the barman hurried away to attend to the calls at the other end of the counter, so the two were left to themselves.

"What are you drinkin', might I ask?"

"Lime-juice and soda," said William.

"Just what I thought. Now, my young friend, it won't do. Didn't you see the train come in to-day?"

"Yes."

"Well?"

"I don't understand."

"Don't you? Well, isn't this the very first train to get here from the South?"

"Yes."

"Well, ain't you goin' to get drunk on it?"

"Certainly not."

Rogers stepped back and looked the boy up and down. Then----

"What will you bet?"

William didn't answer. The transport-rider knocked over the lime-juice and placed his gin in front of the boy.

"Drink that."

"No, I won't."

"Yer won't?"

"No."

"I'll give you three chances and no more."

With that Rogers drew a heavy revolver from his coat pocket.

"Drink! One!"

"No."

"Drink! Two!"

"No."

"Drink! Three!"

"No, I won't drink it."

Rogers stared at the boy for a moment and then put the revolver back in his pocket again.

"I like you. You've got grit. Drink rot-gut if you like, it ain't any business of mine. Here, take these."

"These" were a bundle of Standard Bank notes tied up with a piece of string. William edged close to the wall.

"Here, you take 'em; they're fivers. Got paid for a job to-day, but I like you, so you've got to have 'em."

"I don't want your money."

"Neither do I. Take 'em."

"No."

"What? You don't drink and you won't take good money?"

"No."

"I'll give you three chances, and this time I'll shoot."

"Take 'em! One!"

"No."

"Take 'em! Two!"

"No."

"Take 'em before I say three!"

"No."

"Well then, no one shall have 'em." And with that Rogers flung the bundle out of the door into the darkness. Then he bent his head upon his crossed arms and sobbed.

Jimmy seemed to be watching, for he lifted a flap in the bar counter, went outside the door, and returned almost immediately, stuffing the bundle into his pocket.

"Don't mind him, William."

Then to Rogers, "What about your drink?"

The transport-rider stood up.

"Did you see the train, Jimmy?"

"Yes."

"Ain't nobody drunk?"

"Not very."

"The train's in and nobody drunk? I'll get drunk. I will get drunk."

And with that he danced round and round the bar waving his glass. "The train! The train! The train!" ... Crash!

Everyone turned round. John Rogers, transport-rider of Tantani, had fallen, and lay on the floor insensible.

"Rogers drunk?" came in a chorus of incredulity from all quarters. No one stooped to examine him; perhaps because few besides William and the barman felt it quite safe to stoop. Then several of his fellows pushed him under a seat with their feet, and turned to the bar again.

"Poor old Rogers," they said, "who would have thought it? Must be breaking up. Used to keep goin' for days together without turnin' a hair. Poor old blighter. Train's taken his transport-ridin' away from him. Yes, that's what's upset him."

But William met Rogers next morning, quite himself again.

"Morning, boy."

"Good morning."

"Jimmy gave me my money back."

"Of course."

"Have you got a job?"

"No."

"Looking for one?"

"Yes."

"Well, come my next journey with me. I'll go on the strict t.t. I'll show you some good shooting, too, and I want a hefty young man to help me with my cattle. Jimmy told me he thought you'd come. I want you to come."

William went, and a partnership sprang up which resulted in profit to both.

Rogers and Blake own that large cattle ranch just beyond Belingwe. Rogers must be nearly seventy now, and is still hale and hearty.

THE LOST RUBIES.

If you asked a South African mining man, no doubt he would tell you that there are no rubies in Africa. He would be wrong.

To my knowledge two very large ones have been found. One of them I have seen. The other I have heard about. Take my word for it, there are many rubies in Africa. I will go so far as to tell you where. I hope you will go and look for them, and, what is more, find them.

The rubies of which I write are to be found on the banks of the Zambesi, somewhere below the Victoria Falls. If I could give more exact details, I wouldn't do it: I should go and look for them myself.

As I said before, I know they are there, because I have actually held one in my hand. The man who showed it to me told me it was a ruby. I believed him, of course. I had reason to. But just to make sure, I placed it between two half-crowns, put the precious sandwich on a flat slab of granite, and gave it a severe twisting under my heel.

My silver suffered. I did manage to pass those half-crowns off on someone, but I felt a criminal.

Now this old man who showed the ruby to me looked a very old man indeed. He was a Scotsman. His long beard was only slightly red, otherwise it was white. To be quite accurate, I suppose I should say he had a long white beard tinged with pink. At least, so it seemed to me the first time I saw it and him.

It is just twenty-five years ago that the old man came to my camp on the Zambesi, some forty-five miles above the Victoria Falls.

Quite apart from his beard he was obviously old. His legs were thin. He hobbled from rheumatism. His cheeks were hollow, and how very thin his ears were! I remember his ears quite well, they were almost transparent and his hands--well, they were just claws.

This poor old man came to me for three things.

One. Could I mend a shot-gun? I had a look at the dingy old weapon and admitted that it was quite beyond me. It was a double-barrelled shot-gun with four good inches gone from the right barrel, one from the left, and the rib of metal which should join the two was curled back for a good ten inches.

He explained that he had tried to shoot a king-fisher and his gun exploded. He suggested that a mouse must have crept up the barrel during the night.

Perhaps one had.

I, personally, should have said that the gun was suffering from the same complaint as its owner--old age.

Well, I couldn't help him in the matter of the gun, so what was the next thing?

Had I a drop of good Scotch? Yes, by Jingo, I had, and very welcome the poor old fellow was to it.

I gave him a good dose of his native medicine, which seemed to put back the clock of time for him at least a couple of dozen years.

And the third thing?

Oh, yes, the third thing. He began:--

"You see, I am an old man. I'm an honest man, oh yes, quite honest. I don't lie like the others."

He paused and looked out of the door of my tent.

"The other two are bad."

I don't attempt to reproduce his accent or the queer, querulous way he had of talking, because I can't. He was an old Scotsman, so you may fill in the local colour for yourself.

"I want to tell you something."

"Yes."

"You won't give me away?"

"No, of course not."

"You won't tell the other two?"

"Certainly not, but who are the other two?"

The old man looked out of the tent again and quickly back at me. He placed his finger alongside his nose and winked. Then he said in a loud voice: "I must be going. Thanks for the drink. No, I won't have another. It's getting late and my pals will be anxious."

Through his talk I heard an approaching footstep.

The old man backed out of my tent and I followed him. Within a few yards of us was another man approaching hurriedly. He looked anxiously from me to the old Scotsman and back again.

He stopped and, addressing the old, old man, said: "What are you doing here?"

This annoyed me. I was on the point of asking very sharply what he wanted, anyway, when the expression of both made me pause.

On the old man's face, fear; on the newcomer's, anger, suspicion, greed, cruelty--a bad face of a bad man.

My curiosity was aroused; I answered the question.

"Your friend has been having a drink with me. Won't you have one?"

"No, I will not." Then, by way of an afterthought: "No, thank you very much." And the fellow smiled with his ugly mouth, but not with his eyes.

The intruder, as I now regarded him, seemed in a hurry to be gone.

"The canoe boys are waiting for us and we must go. Come along, Macdonald."

The old man turned his face towards me and, as he said good-bye, I saw a great fear in his eyes.

Ignoring the other, I begged him to stay the night and promised to try my best to mend his gun. He shook his head and turned slowly away.

The ugly man hurried him along towards the bank of the river and helped him into the canoe. I felt there was something wrong but didn't see how I could interfere.

As the pair pushed off from the bank, the other man turned round and shot a searching look at me. What could the mystery be? That thick-set, black-haired little devil was up to no good. He looked as if could murder the old man, me, or anyone else, if necessary.

I saw nothing of them next day, but my natives told me that there were three white men with a waggon camped on the other side. I sent a boy across to spy out the land, but he came back with no information of any real importance.

On the third day I felt so uneasy about the old man that I half made up my mind to cross the river to see him. I was prevented from doing so by the arrival at my camp of the veriest pair of ruffians I ever clapped eyes on.

As they walked up from the river I had time to study them. And a pair of arrant scoundrels they looked.

The man who had already paid me one visit was talking rapidly to a fat, unhealthy-looking fellow who seemed to feel mere walking an excessive exertion, for he puffed, stooped, and walked awkwardly.

The stranger wore a waistcoat but no coat. His braces, which were red, hung untidily on either side; he had forgotten to slip them over his shoulders when putting on his waistcoat.

When they reached my tent I offered them chairs. The fat man sank into one, his thick-set companion stood.

It was the latter who talked. The other mopped his perspiring forehead with a blue cotton handkerchief, and seemed capable only of saying: "That is so; yes, yes," in support of his companion's rapid talk.

It soon became obvious that this precious pair wanted to know exactly what the old man had told me three days before. As he had told me nothing, it was easy to answer them.

"How did I find the old man?"

"Just that he seemed very old, much too old to be at the Zambesi at his time of life."

"Didn't I find him lightheaded?"

"On the contrary, quite normal."

"Hadn't he spun me some queer yarns?"

"No; just told me of his gun and his accident with it."

"Well, as a matter of fact, he was off his head, and I really mustn't believe all he said. Oh dear, he had kept them both in fits of laughter on the road up with his queer notions. Stories of gold mines and suchlike nonsense. Hadn't he talked of that kind of thing?"

"No."

"Well, he was now in bed with a go of fever and talking queerer than usual. Yes, if I could spare it, they'd like some quinine for him; but they had better be going, for it wasn't playing the game to leave an old man for long who had the fever on him."

The pair got up to go.

I disliked them both, especially the fat one, who looked to me like a city-bred parasite--a barman, bookmaker, tobacconist's assistant, or something of that sort. They glanced round them and hesitated, evidently expecting to be asked to drink with me. I would sooner have gone "three out" of a bottle of beer with a couple of hogs.

Presently they went off, evidently much relieved to find I knew nothing.

I was now determined to know all, and quickly; but how to get hold of the old man alone again was the difficulty.

As I sat in my chair thinking, I recollected a remark let fall by the boy I sent to spy upon them: "The fat one drank much Kaffir beer, which he bought from the natives who lived on the north bank of the river."

I sent a messenger to the headman of the village with an order to make much beer, pots and pots of it, and take it new and half-fermented to the white men on the other side. I instructed the headman to sell it cheaply, and said that I would make up the difference.

In due course I had my reward. The old Scotsman came over and told me one of his companions was in great pain and the other was trying to ease the pain by rubbing fat on his belly, that he himself had got away unnoticed, and now wanted to tell me all about "it."

I was naturally all anxiety to hear what "it" was all about, and made the old man sit down.

Now why is it, I wonder, that old men can't come quickly to the point? Much to my annoyance, he wasted a good half an hour telling me what scamps the other two were; how he felt sure that, given half a chance, they would "do him in" but not until they had got from him his secret. Tell them? Not on your life!

But he would tell me; oh yes, he would tell me. Ever seen a ruby? No, not out of a ring? Well, I should see one now and hold it in my hand. A large one, fit for a king. And he would tell me where to find more. Hundreds of them. The other two had brought him up to the Zambesi just to find out where the rubies were. But he wasn't going to tell them, not he. They were too darned stingy with the whisky bottle; besides, they wouldn't sign a paper on it. A man who wouldn't sign a paper on a deal was up to no good--didn't intend to play fair. Now what did I think they should pay him for showing them where the ruby mine was? Would a couple of hundred be a fair thing?

And so on, and on, and on.

I gave him the best advice I could, which amounted to a warning not to trust his companions.

Then he showed me the ruby, which he carried in a small blue medicine bottle marked "fever mixture."

I knew precious little about rubies, and told him so. It was then that I tried it between the two half-crowns.

Having satisfied myself that it was a very hard stone, even if it weren't a ruby, I gave it back to him, and he returned it to its bottle.

He then told me that, many years before, he had been travelling in company with a Jesuit Father along the banks of the Zambesi. That just below the village of a native, whose name for the moment he could not remember, he had found the rubies. One he had kept and the other he had given to the priest, who told him he was going home to France shortly and would find out whether the stone was worth anything or not. If it had value, he would sell it and go halves.

They went down south together, and parted company at Grahamstown. A year later he was sent for by the manager of the Bank and told that L480 had been remitted to him by the Reverend Father.

The money came in handy, and for one reason or another he didn't bother about going all the way up to the Zambesi to get more rubies. He also got married and settled down in Bechuanaland on a farm.

But his wife had lately died. His two daughters were married, and his son was killed in the Matabeleland rebellion. Then he lost all his cattle by rinderpest.

So he left the farm and went to Bulawayo. He didn't know anyone there, but took up with his two companions, met them in a bar, told them about the ruby and showed it to them. A Jew had assured them that the stone was a ruby right enough, and had, he believed, put up some cash for their outfit and journey.

But they wouldn't sign a paper, and were up to no good. He had come up to the Zambesi--felt he had to. It was hard to make money nowadays.

"But I'll tell you all about it," he said, "and where the mine is, so that, if these fellows do me in, you can get the stones. They shan't have them. You know where the Gwai River runs into the Zambesi?"

"Yes."

"Well, it's not quite so far down--Listen! Did you hear that?"

"No, what?"

"That calling for help. There it is again."

We went to the tent door and looked towards the river. In midstream we could see a canoe bottom up. One white man was sitting astride at one end, and there was a native at the other. A second white man was swimming for the bank.

I ran down to the landing stage, calling my canoe boys as I went. For the moment I forgot all about my visitor. There was a white man in the water and, scamp though he undoubtedly was, I couldn't let him drown.

My boys and I got him ashore. It was the thickset one. His fat, unhealthy-looking companion was floating down the river astride the upturned canoe.

After landing the one, I sent my boys back for the other. They had had a thorough wetting and the city-bred fellow was very much scared.

I had their clothes dried and then sent them back to their camp in my own canoe. It appears that an angry hippopotamus attacked them.

All this time I had little time to think about old Macdonald. I asked my people about him and they told me that he had slipped away and crossed in a canoe to the white man's camp whilst the other men's clothes were being dried.

Not a word was said about the Kaffir beer. If the pair of villains were coming across the river to me for assistance or medicine when the accident happened, they forgot to mention the fact in the excitement of the moment and after.

Next day they were gone--all three of them, ruby and all. And I never saw any of them again. But I did see in a Bulawayo paper, which reached me later, the following announcement:

"At the Memorial Hospital, Bulawayo, John Macdonald, died of
blackwater fever. Funeral (Hendrix and Sons) starting from the
Hospital at 3.30 this afternoon."

So I repeat there are rubies in Africa, somewhere on the banks of the Zambesi, below the Falls, but north of where the Gwai river makes its junction. If you decide to go and look for them, good luck to you!

THE CATTLE KING.

Schiller was a cattle trader by profession, and he made a lot of money.

He was incidentally a Jew by birth, an Austrian by accident, a hairdresser by training, and a soldier of fortune when occasion offered. He was quite illiterate.

Although he could neither read nor write he yet kept accurate enough accounts of all his many transactions with the natives. He once showed me his accounts. They consisted of notches on tally sticks. I couldn't make head or tail of them, but Schiller knew to a shilling how much each ox had cost him and how many cattle he had.

One Sunday morning he came over to my bungalow and told me all the gossip of the country-side. Incidentally he remarked that my hair wanted cutting, and asked if he might have the pleasure of operating.

I thanked him and sat down.

To my amazement he produced from a little black bag all the implements of the trade, including a pink print sheet which he proceeded to tuck in round my neck.

His touch was unmistakable.

"Aren't you a professional?"

"Yes, sir, from ---- of Bond Street."

From that day on, twice a month if I was at home, this man who was worth at least twenty thousand pounds cut my hair for sixpence.

He called himself the "Cattle King."

I first met him when he made application for a cattle trading licence at my office: this was many years ago.

As, in those days, we could issue or withhold a licence at discretion, I questioned Schiller closely.

He didn't look like the ordinary Jew. By that I mean he hadn't a pronounced nose: on the contrary, it was small and snubby. He told me he was a Jew, I should not have guessed it.

He wore a long row of medal ribbons and, in support of his claim to them, produced discharge papers from every irregular force raised in Africa during the last twenty years.

I read the papers carefully and could but conclude that the little man who applied for a licence was a confirmed fire-eater and a very gallant soldier.

No camp follower he. His medals were earned and at the cost of not a few wounds. I later saw these honourable scars.

I gave him his licence and asked him to sign an undertaking designed to control certain undesirable activities in which it was just possible he might wish to indulge.

He couldn't write his name. A large X with a few unnecessary blots thrown in adorned the record of his promise. He never broke his word: in fact that man's word was his bond in the truest sense.

I have always found that an illiterate man is a much more rapid learner than one who keeps a note book. The one relies upon his memory and so strengthens it; the other discourages it by admitting its limitations.

He learnt the local dialect rapidly, and his pronunciation was quite good. This gave him advantage over his rival traders.

Natives like to hear their language spoken by a white man, and, as Schiller was a fluent talker, his company was much sought after.

He was a trading genius. Anything he had for sale soon became the rage with the large native population. He got to know most of the great ladies of the land. Knowing that great ladies, be they white or black, set the fashions, he persuaded them to patronise his store and accept long credit.

If this particular pattern of print did not generally commend itself to the community, one of the important dames would shortly appear draped in yards of it. If that coloured bead did not sell freely, a personage in the Chief's household would soon be seen wearing string after string of it.

But it was cattle he wanted, and cattle he got. So large did his herd of fine beasts become that the Chief himself grew jealous, and issued a warning to his people not to sell too freely.

Still the herd increased. The man dealt more fairly with the people than the other traders, and, moreover, did not make the mistake of getting upon too familiar terms with his customers.

During my absence on a tour of inspection a crisis arose. The Chief forbade his people to have any further dealings with the Cattle King.

Schiller counted his gains, branded his cattle, and sent them south to the rail-head for sale. Then he closed his store.

Just at this time a number of waggons arrived bearing many cases and bales of new goods for him. These were off-loaded, unpacked, and disappeared into the closed store.

Then Schiller made a hatch in the store door not unlike that of a railway booking-office. He left the shutter ajar, but piled up goods in front of all the windows. Black noses in plenty gathered against the panes, but goods--goods everywhere--blocked a view of the interior of the store.

Through the hatch Schiller could be seen mysteriously occupied. He had a chequered board in front of him with many little discs of wood upon it. He sat with eyes fixed on the board, and from time to time moved a disc.

He told all inquirers that his store had been closed by orders of the Chief, and that he himself was very busy.

News of the trader's preoccupation spread about. Was he making medicine with which to harm the people? Surely not; he was a kind little man.

Was he communicating in some strange way with the absent Commissioner? That might be; better make sure.

The Chief became uneasy. At last he sent his principal headman to inquire.

This headman had received some education at the Mission school, so he wrote a polite letter to warn the trader of his coming.

SIR,

My greetings to the honest man the merchant. I hope you have slept
well I am telling you that I have not seen you for a long time and
it is my intention of coming to see how you get on. I am well and
my wife is well. Now I must close my letter.

Your friend,
GONYE.

The envelope bore the address:

Mr. Shiler, Esq.,
The Merchant.

The letter was duly delivered at the hatch. Schiller pretended to read it and said there was no answer.

As a rule he brought his letters to be read by my native clerk, but I had taken him with me on my tour.

If the Cattle King was surprised when the headman pushed open the hatch shutter and looked in, he did not show it.

He glanced up from his draught-board impatiently, frowned at the interruption, and turned to the game again. He was playing self versus self, and self was giving self no end of a tussle.

"Good-day to you, Merchant."

"Good-day, Gonye."

"I hope you have slept well?"

"Yes, and you?"

"Oh, yes, I have slept very well, thank you, Merchant."

Silence fell upon the pair, and the game of self _v._ self proceeded.

"Huff you for not taking me here," muttered Schiller.

"Crown me, please," replied Schiller.

"What are you doing, honest man?" asked Gonye.

"Yes," replied the merchant abstractedly.

"You do not trade now, Merchant."

"No, your Chief has closed my store."

"Will you tell the Commissioner?"

"Of course."

"What will he do?"

"The Chief and you will know what he will do when he does it."

"What are you doing now, honest man?" asked Gonye, and added--"May I come in?"

"Yes, if you don't talk or touch the goods."

The trader got up and let the native in, but returned to his game without ceremony.

Gonye walked round the piled-up counters and inspected the well-filled shelves. Here were goods indeed. Goods worth many head of cattle. Blankets, coloured print, calico, brass wire, beads, shirts, hats, coats, sugar, jam, tobacco, pipes, knives, looking-glasses, mouth organs, and goodness knows what besides.

Seeing all these nice new things created many wants in the headman's heart. But the Chief had closed the store.

Gonye wandered back to where the trader sat and watched him.

With a shout of triumph, self beat self by two kings. Schiller rearranged the board for another contest.

"Is it a game?" asked Gonye.

"Yes, it's a game."

"Is it a very hard game?"

"Very hard."

"Did it take you long to learn?"

"Years and years."

"Could I learn it?"

The trader sat back in his chair and looked fixedly at the native. "You might," he said.

"Will you teach me?"

"I will try to; bring up that chair and sit down."

The rest of the afternoon was spent by Schiller initiating Gonye into the mysteries of draughts.

Next day the native came again.

"I think I can play now, Merchant."

"Do you? Well, you take black and I will play with white."

Schiller won, with a loss of scarcely a man.

"Try again, Gonye."

Schiller played a cunning game, so the native made a slightly better showing next time. The third game he did better still. The fourth game he won.

That was the only game of draughts he ever did win against the trader. In his triumph the headman persuaded the Chief to declare the store reopened. The merchant was a good man. He was indeed an honest man. His cattle kraal was empty. What would they say to the Commissioner on his return? The trader would of course complain. Moreover, the store was full of very nice goods.

The next morning the store was opened and the natives flocked to it with their cattle. Schiller did a great trade, and bought more cattle in a week than all the other traders combined had done in three months.

Gonye felt rather sore as the merchant declared that he was now too busy trading to play draughts. However, Schiller, who was no fool, made his position of Cattle King secure by presenting the board and men to Gonye.

The last I heard of Schiller was at the outbreak of the Great War. He had joined the Force which set out to take German South-West Africa.

PARTNERS.

Jack Fernie and William Black became partners in the usually pleasant business of seeing something of the world.

What the two men had in common was little enough so far as I could discover. They appeared to meet on the common ground of boots--uncommon boots.

Fernie hated wet feet. He argued that if water got in over the top of the boot, the foot remained damp all day, which was bad for you. So he punched holes through the leather of the uppers, all round, just where it bends in to meet the soles. He explained that since water must find its own level, it will run out of your boots as readily as it will run in, if given a fair chance.

Black went in constant dread of developing an ingrowing toenail, so he wore boots with two compartments inside, one for the big toe and the other for the rest. They were very ugly, clumsy boots, but Black declared that they were a sure preventive and very comfortable.

These two strange creatures were never tired of discussing each other's boots.

Now Fernie had been second officer on board a liner. On the way home from India he had said unrepeatable things to a parson. When he arrived in London his directors sent for him, scolded him severely, and dismissed him from their service.

When I got to know Fernie well, I asked him what all the trouble had been about. He was not very communicative; he merely said that he could no more abide a black coat than he could a black cat. With that he changed the subject, and I had to be content.

Black had slaved as a clerk in the City for thirty-five years and doubtless would have remained one for the rest of his natural life had not an old lady, no relation of his, left him in her will a sum of money which provided him with an income of between six and seven hundred a year. There was no mention of the why and the wherefore in the will, and Black declared that he couldn't imagine why she did him this good turn.

It appears that Fernie and Black first met in Bulawayo. How, exactly, I don't know. They had bought a donkey-waggon and set out for the Zambesi river, which they crossed at a place called Kazungula, some forty-five miles above the Victoria Falls.

Their introduction to me was a curious one. Fernie walked into my camp one day, followed by Black. He said: "Are you the magistrate of these parts?"

"Yes."

"Well, will you sell us up?"

"What do you mean?"

"You see, we're partners, Black and I. We don't get on as such and want to dissolve. Isn't that so, Black?"

"Yes."

"So we want you to sell us up; sell our outfit as it stands--waggon, donkeys, and everything else we've got. Don't we, Black?"

"Yes."

"But," I said, "who do you expect to buy in a place like this? There isn't a white man within a couple of hundred miles. I'm not buying donkeys, and the natives can't."

"That's all right," said Fernie. "I will do all the bidding, and you can divide the proceeds between us."

"Yes," said Black, "that's what we want you to do."

Of course, I agreed to help and asked them to set out the things for sale.

When everything was ready, Black handed to me a list, neatly written and ruled with two money columns, one headed "Cost Price" and the other "Sale Price."

I had never acted as auctioneer before, but that didn't matter; entering into the spirit of the thing, I began.

"Gentlemen, I have here as fine a span of donkeys and as sound a waggon as ever came north of the Zambesi----"

But Fernie cut me short with: "A hundred and sixty pounds."

I looked at the list. In the cost-price column, against the item "span of donkeys and a waggon" was set L160.

I got no fun out of the sale at all. Fernie bought everything, bidding cost price for everything. The total, I think, came to just three hundred pounds.

"Black, I owe you a hundred and fifty, and here you are."

Black took the bundle of notes, counted them with practised finger and thumb, nodded, and handed a receipt to Fernie. The queer pair then shook hands, grinned at each other sheepishly, and thanked me for settling their little difference.

The three of us had lunch together, and during the meal Fernie told me as much of their story as he thought fit.

It appears that on their way up to the Zambesi friction arose between them; nothing serious, but just enough to make them feel a little tired of one another's company. Fernie considered that he should boss the outfit; Black wanted a say in matters, too. In Black's opinion Fernie was too dictatorial. Fernie thought that Black butted in too much and always unnecessarily--fatuously. So they sat down one day and discussed the situation calmly and decided that Fernie should buy Black's share and that Black should become a passenger, paying Fernie so much weekly.

This arrangement was so simple and complete that I wondered why it was necessary to bring me into the matter at all. I suspect it was the ex-clerk's passion for regularity and record, for immediately after the sale he had drawn up a formal statement of dissolution of partnership. When he and Fernie had signed this document, they asked me to countersign it.

After luncheon we sat for a while discussing guns and rifles. By we, I mean Fernie and I, for Black possessed no firearms of any sort and appeared to take little interest in them.

Fernie set so much store by the Martini-Henry rifle and the old hammer shot-gun that I correctly guessed these made up his battery. Presently he produced the weapons for my opinion.

The shot-gun had been a good one in its far-off day, but the spring of the right-hand lock had gone, so only the left barrel was serviceable. The Martini was so old and the rifling so worn that I wondered how Fernie ever hit anything at which he aimed. But he did. He said he had got to know the old gas-pipe.

That evening the pair left me and went North.

From time to time I came across these men; now and again one or the other wrote to me; later, their waggon boys told me much; I gathered more from the natives of the district in which they aimlessly wandered; finally, Black's sister entrusted her brother's diary to me. The entries in this book were made in shorthand. I had the whole transcribed. I told her I had lost the book; I lied. I have the book still. She died peacefully without an inkling of its contents.

From these various sources of information I have put together a few yarns, which I now tell for the first time. For instance, there was a curious adventure with a lion.

Fernie had been out shooting most of the day: shooting for the pot, as the party had been without meat for some time. Black, as usual, remained in camp writing up his diary. He also mended a boot.

He concluded that Fernie was having very good sport because of the number of shots he fired during the afternoon. With an inexperienced man like Fernie, armed with a rifle such as his, it was not wise to jump at conclusions.

Late in the evening Fernie came back to camp very hot and tired. He was evidently in a bad temper, for when Black asked him if he would like some tea, he rudely said: "Tea, you bloomin' grandmother," and opened a bottle of whisky.

Then he called the driver and said he wanted a couple of donkeys to bring in the meat of a hartebeest which he had killed. The driver brought two and followed Fernie into the bush. They didn't return until eleven o'clock at night. Black had become anxious as time went on. He heard Fernie shooting again at about ten o'clock and wondered how he could see to take aim in the dark. He had, of course, never heard of the common practice of firing a shot in the air if you are not quite sure of your whereabouts and then listening for a guiding shot from the camp.

It wouldn't have helped much if he had known, for he had never fired a gun in his life. It did not occur to the second waggon boy, who had also remained in camp, to ask Black why he didn't reply to the signals of distress; he very naturally concluded that Black did not do so for reasons of his own, not through ignorance or inability.

It is only fair to Black to say that Fernie had not previously heard of this manner of signalling either. The waggon boy put him up to it when they thought they were lost.

At eleven o'clock the wanderers found their way back to camp. Fernie was in a worse temper than ever.

"Why the hell didn't you answer my shots?"

"Your shots?"

"Is the fellow deaf as well as a brainless idiot?"

"I did hear you shooting, but I thought you had come across some more hartebeest."

"How the devil do you suppose I could see to shoot in this pitch darkness?"

"I don't know; I wondered."

"Oh, so you wondered, did you?"

"Well, what did you want me to do?"

"Sing, or any damn thing. But how could an ex-ink-slinger be expected to have any horse-sense to do anything requiring a glimmer of intelligence? Oh, don't talk; of course, it's not your fault, it's your Maker's."

Black felt keenly the coarse injustice of this attack and sat silently looking into the fire. The truth of the matter was that Fernie had lost his way. He couldn't find the dead hartebeest. He cursed the waggon boy for a fool, which he wasn't; and beat him, which he didn't deserve.

"Off-load those chunks of meat near the fire and get to hell out of this," said Fernie roughly to the waggon boy. The fellow relieved the donkeys of their load and slouched away.

Black looked up. "You're tired, Fernie. Won't you have some supper?"

Fernie, who was making a pile of the hartebeest meat, turned with an angry jerk towards the speaker. Something in Black's attitude brought him sharply to his senses and saved him from adding fresh insult to those already thrown at his friend.

Instead, he said: "I'm sorry, Black old man. I'm a beast and we both know it. I take back all I said; please forget it. And I must give that driver fellow a tot of whisky; I hit him, which was a rotten thing to do, because he can't hit me back, and I, not he, was wrong."

It certainly was a rotten thing to do. Fernie was a big-boned, powerful man, with a fist like a leg of mutton in size. He hardly knew his strength, but many a troublesome seaman could have testified to it in the old liner days.

However, the tot of neat whisky put matters more or less right with the boy.

Black pressed Fernie to have a good square meal, but he wouldn't. He drank half a glass of raw whisky, followed by about a gallon of water. Then he put down his blankets and turned in, his head towards the pile of meat and his feet to the fire. Completely exhausted, he fell asleep immediately.

It had become a habit with Fernie to place his loaded shot-gun by his side when he went to sleep, and he invariably had a large spanner handy. He did not forget to make these preparations now, tired though he was. He made them mechanically.

Black, who remained by the fire, put on his spectacles and wrote up his diary. Then he too put down his blankets, close to where Fernie lay.

He didn't go to sleep at once. In spite of his apology, Fernie's words had left a sting. This had been his worst outbreak so far. He had never used the contemptuous epithet "ex-ink-slinger" before. Because of its truth it hurt.

So Black lay on his back watching the sparks rise from the fire at his feet. He was indeed seeing the world, but he began to doubt whether he had chosen exactly the best parts of it or the most pleasant way of seeing them.

No unkind thought of Fernie ever entered his mind. I think I can safely say this, for his very full diary contains no hint of such. On the contrary, a strong thread of deep admiration and affection for his friend can be traced without a break through every page of that strange book.

Presently there was a slight movement behind the pile of meat. Black turned slowly over on his side and looked. To his great alarm he saw a large lion smelling the meat. He put out his hand and touched Fernie, who woke at once, sat up, and looked. However uncertain the sailor's temper might be, his nerve was still good. He snatched up his gun. As he did so, the lion made a short backward jump and glared at the men, growling. Fernie put the gun to his shoulder and pressed the trigger. There was no report! He had forgotten the broken spring. Why he did not fire the left barrel remains a mystery. Instead, he gripped the gun about the trigger guard with his left hand, pressed the stock firmly to his shoulder, and aimed a sharp blow at the hammer with his spanner. He missed the hammer, but hit his thumb.

"Gentle, jumping Johnson!" he hissed through his clenched teeth. "The devil take the blighted thing and chew it!"

With that he flung the spanner at the beast, and disregarding the blood spurting from his crushed thumb, fired the left barrel after the lion, which had bounded away into the darkness.

It was many days before that thumb healed.

I don't suppose that at the beginning of their partnership Fernie knew much or any more about firearms than Black did. It is probable that both were equally ignorant. This does not appear from the diary, but then allowance must be made for Black's deep admiration of Fernie and all he did.

Of course, Fernie had travelled much and, thanks to his training at sea, took more quickly to strange conditions and new things than Black. By dint of perseverance and the expenditure of much ammunition, he managed to keep the camp supplied with meat, but in those days game was thick upon the ground.

It is probable that if the job of keeping the larder full had been handed over to the driver of the donkey waggon, all would have fared better.

It is on record that under Fernie's tuition Black once tried his hand at shooting at a target. I say once advisedly, for he tried but once.

The rifle he used was, of course, Fernie's old Martini. The target was the bleached skull of an ox that they found by the roadside.

After showing his pupil how to hold the rifle, how to aim, and the use of sights, Fernie gave Black a handful of cartridges and walked off to set up the target.

Black was bubbling over with suppressed excitement. His heart beat rapidly. His mouth felt unaccountably dry. He almost made up his mind to borrow the rifle that very afternoon and go out and look for a buck. He pictured himself soon taking turn and turn about with Fernie in keeping the pot going.

With an effort he ceased building castles, pulled himself together, and mentally repeated Fernie's instruction on the rifle. He determined to acquit himself creditably.

Fernie had meanwhile set up the target about fifty yards away, and had moved to what he considered a safe distance. He now shouted to Black to have a shot, adding: "Don't be afraid of the darned thing, it won't hurt you. Besides, it doesn't matter if you do miss the first shot or two."

Black clenched his teeth, put the rifle to his shoulder, and aimed at the skull.

The rifle wobbled.

He was most anxious to make a good beginning.

The rifle went on wobbling.

He held his breath.

The rifle wobbled more.

He held his breath until his lungs nearly burst. Then, I'm afraid, he shut his eyes and pulled the trigger in desperation.

Goodness knows where the bullet went to. Fernie declared that it passed just over his head.

But Black? He threw the rifle on the ground and rubbed his collar-bone and chin. His spectacles fell off. From where Fernie stood it looked as if he might be swearing.

"What's the matter? Have another shot," shouted Fernie, as he walked towards his friend.

"Nothing much the matter, but I don't want another shot. It hurts too much, and you said it wouldn't."

"Hurt? Nonsense! Slip in another cartridge."

"I won't."

Fernie picked up the rifle and began to wipe off the dust with his hand. "Hulloa! What on earth have you done to the thing?"

"Done to it?"

"Why yes; this bulge in the barrel."

"Did I do that?"

"Well, it wasn't like that before."

"Wasn't it?"

"Why no. And where's my plug?"

"Your what?"

"The plug of wood I had in the barrel. Good Heavens! You don't mean to say that you fired the thing off with the plug in it?"

"I don't know anything about plugs. You gave me the rifle to fire and I fired it. My neck hurts, and I'm going back to the waggon."

There must have been good metal in that old rifle, or it would surely have exploded. About an inch from the end of the barrel was a bulge as large as a hen's egg.

One adventure is fully recorded in the diary.

Fernie shot a reedbuck. Rain had fallen during the afternoon, so, following the example of the waggon boys, the white men had taken the roof from a deserted native hut, propped it up with a pole, and had made their beds under it.

Fernie put the reedbuck meat on the raised eaves of the hut roof to be out of the reach of stray night marauders, such as hyenas, jackals, or native dogs.

After his experience with the lion, he had discarded the damaged shot-gun in favour of the more serviceable rifle as a means of protection by night.

In due course the two men went to bed and both fell asleep.

Their awakening was as sudden as it was unusual. Something fell heavily on Fernie's chest. Still half-asleep, he hit out instinctively. His fist came in violent contact with hairy ribs. A beast grunted and scrambled away.

Meanwhile Black had received a leg of the reedbuck on his head and was pushing the clammy thing from him.

It appears that a hyena had crept up between the sleeping men, had sprung at the meat piled on the upturned roof, had misjudged the distance, and had fallen back in a heap upon Fernie. In its ineffectual attempt to carry off the meat it had dislodged a piece, which fell upon Black.

The friends re-made their beds, replenished the fire, and Black turned in again. Fernie, determined to get a shot at the hyena, should it return, sat up, rifle in hand, and watched for some time.

After a while he got tired of sitting up, so got back into his blankets again.

For perhaps an hour he lay on his back, holding his rifle in his hand, the butt resting on his chest and the barrel pointing straight up into the sky. It was in those positions that Black remembered seeing man and weapon just before he slipped off to sleep.

How long it was before Fernie went to sleep neither had means of knowing, but both awoke to the sound of Fernie's rifle.

"What's up?" asked Black.

"Blest if I know quite."

"Did you see the hyena?"

"I think so, I thought I did."

"Do you think you hit him?"

"I really don't know. I think I must have been dreaming. I believe I let off the rifle in my sleep and then dropped it. My jaw hurts, so does my shin--damnably."

"Do you mean to say you fired the thing into the air?"

"I expect so; why?"

Black didn't wait to talk. He jumped up, pulled on his boots and bolted. As he ran he shouted: "Look out for the bullet!"

"Come back, you silly ass!" called Fernie after him. But there was no reply.

For a little while he could hear the shuffle of Black's unlaced boots as he hurried away, but not for long, as there was a wind blowing in the direction which Black had taken.

From time to time Fernie called, but there was no reply. He became alarmed for his pal's safety, so got up and dressed. With a lantern in his hand he wandered here and there, hullooing.

When it became light enough he called the waggon boys, and all went in search of Black.