e up and see me at my kia. Sure
you can't come now?"

"Yais, I coom now," answered the other.

Mills stared. "'Fraid you can't trust me to go alone, are you?" he
queried. "'Cause, if so----"

"Tha's all right," interrupted the Frenchman. "I coom now."

"Right you are," said Mills heartily. "Come along then!"

They strode off in the direction of the drift, Mills going
thoughtfully, with an occasional glance at his companion. The
Frenchman smiled perpetually, and once he laughed out.

"What's the joke?" demanded the trader.

"I think I do a good piece of business to-day," replied the
Frenchman.

"H'm, yes," continued Mills suspiciously.

It was a longish uphill walk to the trader's store, and the night
fell while they were yet on the way. With the darkness came a breeze,
cool and refreshing; the sky filled with sharp points of light, and
the bush woke with a new life. The crackle of their boots on the
stiff grass as they walked sent live things scattering to left and
right, and once a night-adder hissed malevolently at the Frenchman's
heel. They talked little as they went, but Mills noticed that now and
again his companion appeared to check a laugh. He experienced a
feeling of vague indignation against the man who had saved his life;
he was selfish in not sharing his point of view and the thoughts
which amused him. At times reserve can be the most selfish thing
imaginable, and one might as well be reticent on a desert island as
in Manicaland. Moreover, despite the tolerant manners of the country,
Mills was conscious of something unexplained in his companion--
something which engendered a suspicion on general grounds.

The circle of big dome-shaped huts which constituted the store of
Last Notch came into view against a sky of dull velvet as they
breasted the last rise. The indescribable homely smell of a wood-fire
greeted the nostrils with the force of a spoken welcome. They could
hear the gabble of the Kafirs at their supper and the noise of their
shrill, empty laughter.

"That's home," said Mills, breaking a long silence.

"Yais," murmured the Frenchman; "'ome, eh? Yais. Ver' naice."

"You may say what you like," continued the trader aggressively. "Home
is something. Though never so 'umble, ye know, there's no place like
home."

"Tha's all right," assented the other gaily. "I know a man name'
Albert Smith, an' 'e sing that in the jail at Beira. Sing all the
night till I stop 'im with a broom. Yais."