n him the European
had predominated to such an extent that outside Africa he might have
passed for a white man. There was, however, a certain lithe suppleness
about his walk and movements that would have given him away in a moment
to any South African not of the town born and bred.

"Well, Charlie," said Ben Halse; "it's all loaded up now. Mr Denham
says he won't close his eyes until he knows his cargo's shipped, so be
sure and impress upon Garland that he must send word at once."

"That'll be all right, Mr Halse; Mr Denham can rest easy," answered
the young fellow. "If there's a reliable agent in Durban for anything
under the sun, from shipping an elephant to the Zoo to sending a
youngster to sea properly equipped, Mr Garland's the man."

"Well, then, you can trek. Come in and have a drop of square face
first."

"Well, Mr Halse, I don't often take anything," said the young fellow
deprecatorily. "But--once in a way."

The refection was duly consumed, and the waggon rolled its way down the
hill.

"Your stuff'll be all right, Mr Denham, never fear," said Charlie
Newnes, as they shook hands. Then he started to overtake the waggon.

"That's a fine young fellow," said Denham, looking after the outfit. "I
should think he and his like would count for something in this country,
in the long run."

"Oh, I don't know. They are rather between the devil and the deep sea,"
answered the trader. "There are quite a lot of them about--decent,
respectable chaps for the most part. Neither one thing nor the other.
I knew his father well in the old days. Bob Newnes ran the whole
north-western part of this country before and after the war of '79. He
made his pile a good bit."

"Father, you _are_ giving yourself away," laughed Verna.

"Oh, I've done that already before. Well, what does it matter? Any
fool can see I'm no chicken."

"You're a jolly well-preserved one, Halse," said Denham. "No one would
have given you credit for such far-back experiences if you hadn't told
them yourself."

"They used to call me a gun-runner, you know, Denham--do still, in fact.
We were all gunrunners in those days, as I was telling you just now.
But what the devil did it matter? No one was damaged by any gunshot
during the war of '79, except in a couple of stray instances, for the
average Zulu is such a wretched shot he couldn't hit a cathedral. Since
then--well, when they fought each other, there was no harm in supplying
them wit