been burnt down bedding, clothing, provisions everything
except the gun, which I had taken with me, and the saddle which was in
the pony's shelter down in the kloof had been consumed. Toby had
bolted. I burst into tears and flung myself to the ground. Night fell;
I could not endure the loneliness, so fled from the desolated spot. I
was at the time not quite fourteen years old.

Shortly after this catastrophe I trekked with my flock to a small farm
near what is now called Kei Road, but which was then known as Hangman's
Bush. Here there was a homestead. But the place was surrounded by small
fields cultivated by German peasants; consequently the sheep were
continually trespassing and being sent to the pound. Before many months
the flock had to be disposed of at a ruinous loss. Thus ingloriously
ended my first and last adventure as a stock-farmer.

My next essay, towards wooing fortune was in the line of Kaffir
trading. I hired myself to a trader, whose shop was in the Gaika
Reserve, close to the kraal of the celebrated Chief Sandile, not far
from Tembani. Sandile, who possessed enormous influence with his
powerful and war-like tribe, was a man utterly wanting in dignity. He
was club-footed, and consequently went very lame. I remember being once
sent on a message to his kraal. He came to know that I had a threepenny
piece, so began begging for this. He paid no heed to my refusal, but
clung to my stirrup-leather and dragged himself after me for nearly
half a mile, begging in the most abject terms. I am glad to be able to
say that I kept the coin. But Sandile was a brave man; he died the
death of a soldier in the Gaika Rebellion of 1878. He was killed in a
skirmish in the Pirie Forest, near King William's Town.

My career as a trader was shorter and even more inglorious than that as
a farmer. Within a month I was discharged as utterly incompetent.
Although I resented this at the time, I am now convinced that the
dismissal was well-merited.

It is difficult in these days when Cook & Son issue excursion tickets
to the Zambezi, and beyond to realize the mystery and glamour that hung
over the greater part of South Africa forty years ago. I can remember
how as a child I used to pore over the maps of the period so poor in
detail, occasionally with "elephants for want of towns" and wonder as
to whether, after I had grown up, I might hope one day to reach the
Orange River. Farther than that my wildest anticipatory dreams did not