a thing touched or
displaced. How would that pan out for an experiment in England, for
instance?"

"But poorly, I'm afraid," laughed Gerard.

"Just so. No, the Zulu is the hardest nail going at a deal. But once
the deal is over and it's no longer a question of trade, he's the most
honest man in the world. You'll soon get into their ways and know
exactly how to deal with them, and meanwhile try all you know to pick up
as much of the language as you can. Sintoba, the driver of the other
waggon, is a smart clever chap, and talks English fairly well. You
can't do better than learn all you can from him."

Thus, with many a useful hint and anecdote illustrative of native
character or the life of the _veldt_, would Dawes beguile the time as
they trekked along, all of which Gerard drank in eagerly. His anxiety
to make himself of use knew no bounds. He was up before the first
glimmer of dawn, and would have the "boys" astir and the fire started
for the early pannikin of black coffee, sometimes even before Dawes was
awake, to the latter's astonishment and secret satisfaction. In a day
or two he could take his share at inspanning as readily as the rest, was
as deft at handling the whip as the professional driver, Sintoba
himself, and knew all the oxen by name. And at night, as they sat
around the red embers, he was never tired of listening to Dawes's
narratives of experience and adventure, whether his own or those of
others. He was, in fact, as happy as the day was long, and felt almost
fraternal when he thought of Anstey, remembering that but for that
worthy's rascality he would not be here now.

Several days had gone by. They had passed through Grey Town, and the
magnificent bush country beyond, with its towering heights and great
cliffs rearing up their smooth red faces from tossing seas of verdure.
They had met or passed other waggons from time to time--for it was the
main road to the Transvaal--and now they were descending into the Tugela
valley.

"Hot, eh, Ridgeley?" said Dawes, with a dry smile, mopping his forehead
with a red pocket-handkerchief.

"Yes, it's warm," assented Gerard, who in reality was nearly
light-headed with the terrible heat, but would not own it. There was
not a breath of air. The sun-rays, focused down into the great
bush-clad valley, seemed to beat with the force of a burning-glass, and
the heights on either side shut out whatever breeze might have tempered
the torrid fierceness.