, and were
cropping the grass with an enjoyment born of the night's abstinence.

"No hurry," returned he thus unceremoniously disturbed, rolling his rugs
closer around him.

"But there is hurry, Dibs, if we want to get to Hollingworth's by
breakfast-time."

"But _I_ don't want to get to Hollingworth's by breakfast-time, or any
other time for the matter of that."

"Oh yes, you do, once you're up. Come now, old man. Roll out."

The two were old schoolfellows--hence the nickname which still stuck to
one of them--and had met up-country by the merest chance, Moseley we
have already seen, in the capacity of newly landed passenger from the
English mail-steamer. Tarrant was a lean, dark man, with a pointed
beard and a dry expression of countenance. He was inclined to take
things easily, declaring that everything was bound to come right if only
it were left alone. Moseley, on the other hand, was one of those
painfully energetic persons, bursting with an all-pervading and utterly
superfluous vitality. They had been out surveying claims, and were now
on their return to Bulawayo.

The night's camp had been pitched in a romantic glen, with nothing
between the sleepers and the starry heaven but the spreading branches of
a wild fig, nothing between them and Mother Earth but some cut grass and
a rug. Stiff and cold, Tarrant rose from amid his blankets, and stood
rubbing his eyes.

"I'll never come out on survey with you again, Moseley," he declared.
"You're a bore of the first water."

"Won't you, old chap? I seem to have heard something of that sort
before--often before."

"I mean it this time. Er--Mafuta. _Tshetsha_ with that fire.
_Tshetsha umlilo, Umfaan_. You savvy? _Tshetsha_!"

Whether the native boy understood this adjuration in the dialect known
as "kitchen Kafir" or not, he continued stolidly striving to blow into
flame some ends of stick still smouldering from last night's blaze, it
not seeming to occur to him that a couple of handfuls of dry grass would
do the trick in as many seconds. The while the dialogue between his
white masters continued.

"Who the devil is Hollingworth when he's at home, Moseley?"

"Down-country man, up here trying to farm. Served in the war against Lo
Ben, and had ground given him. Rattling good chap. By the way, he's
got rather a pretty wife."

"Kids?"

"Yes; three or four. I forget which."

"Faugh! Hate kids. Always a nuisance. Always yelling. Yell when
th