ut nobody
would offer anything for it. Now, why not sell it to him? No one would
be any the wiser. It was night; no one had seen him come in. That was
because he had come so late, and on a dark and rainy night.

"And what do you want to do with it, Tom, when you've got it?"

_Au_! It was not for himself. He was not in want of it. It was for
his brother. He would give ten pounds for it, ten pounds down in hard
cash.

"That settles the matter, then," said Roden, decisively, intent on
drawing him on. "If it's for your brother, I won't have any more to
say. Two in an affair of this sort is one too many. But three; oh no!
That deal won't come off, Tom."

The Kaffir looked profoundly disappointed, then muttered a little. Then
he said, with a shamefaced laugh--

"It isn't for my brother, _Baas_. That was not true. I want the gun
myself. I will give twelve pounds for it. See, I have the money."

He produced a tied-up rag, an exceedingly dirty and greasy rag, and
shook it. The result was a clinking sound, the solid, metallic,
comfortable clink of hard gold.

"I can't sell it to you, Tom," said Roden again, thinking the while how
he only wished to the Lord he could.

"Look, _Baas_," went on the Kaffir eagerly, his fingers quivering
nervously in their hurry, as they struggled with the knots of the greasy
rag. "Here is the money; I will give it all. I will give fifteen
pounds for the gun; but I can offer no more, for I have no more. Here
it is--all."

He had untied the knots of the rag, and was eagerly counting forth its
contents upon an old packing case. There they lay, fifteen bright
sovereigns, glittering in the light of the lantern.

Roden Musgrave wanted money just as much as the average junior Civil
Servant habitually does, or for the matter of that the average senior
either. He had repeatedly tried to realise the old muzzle-loader, and
had at length given it up in disgust. As the other had said, nobody
would bid so much as a pound for it. And here was an offer of fifteen
sovereigns for it--fifteen sovereigns in hard cash, lying there to be
picked up. Of course he knew perfectly well what it was wanted for, but
equally did he know that the average Kaffir is so wretched a shot as to
be unable to hit a house, unless he were first dropped down the chimney
thereof. If this fool, bursting with martial ardour, chose to steal
away and join the hostile tribes, he was pretty certain to get bowled