his hut, and I turned out the improvised guard. A stirring
spectacle; and it had the desired effect, for the German afterwards
admitted to being deeply impressed, especially by the local wizard,
who paraded in his professional regalia, and, coming to cross-purposes
with his rifle, bayoneted himself and wept bitterly. The ceremonies
over and the casualty removed we adjourned to Frobisher's _kya_,
broached the whisky and sat about in solemn state, stiff with
accoutrements, sodden with perspiration. Our visitor kept the Red,
White and Black flying on a tree over the border, he explained; this
was his annual ceremonial call. He sighed and brushed the sweat from
his nose with the tips of a white glove--"the weather was warm, _nicht
wahr?_" I admitted that we dabbled in flag-flying ourselves and that
the weather was all he claimed for it (which effort cost me about four
pounds in weight). Tongues lolling, flanks heaving, we discussed the
hut-tax, the melon crop, the monkey-nut market, the nigger--and the
weather again.

Suddenly Frobisher sprang up, cast loose the shackles of his Sam
Browne, hurled it into a corner, and began tearing at his tunic hooks.
I stared at him in amazement--such manners before visitors. But our
immaculate guest leapt to his feet with a roar like a freed lion, and,
stripping his white gloves, flung them after the Sam Browne, whereupon
a fury of undressing came upon us. Helmets, belts, tunics, shirts were
piled into the corner, until at length we stood in our underclothes,
laughing and unashamed. After that we got on famously, that Teuton
and we, and three days later, when he swarmed aboard his mule and
left home (in pyjamas this time) it was with real regret we waved him
farewell.

But not for long. Within a month we were surprised by a hail from the
bush, and there was Otto, mule, pyjamas and all.

"Ullo, 'ullo, 'ullo!" he carolled. "'Ere gomes ze Sherman invasion!
Durn out ze guard!" He roared with laughter, fell off his palfrey and
bawled for his batman, who ambled up balancing a square box on his
woolly pate.

His mother in Munich had sent him a case of Lion Brew, Otto explained,
so he had brought it along.

We wassailed deep into that night and out the other side, and we liked
our Otto more than ever. We had plenty in common, the same loneliness,
fevers, climate, and niggers to wrestle with; moreover he had been
in England, and liked it; he smoked a pipe; he washed. Also, as he
privily co