winter, and as I crossed the road next morning it was covered with
rime. All my fears had gone, and my mind was strung high with
expectation. Five pencilled words may seem a small thing to build hope
on, but it was enough for me, and I went about my work in the store
with a reasonably light heart. One of the first things I did was to
take stock of our armoury. There were five sporting Mausers of a cheap
make, one Mauser pistol, a Lee-Speed carbine, and a little
nickel-plated revolver. There was also Japp's shot-gun, an old
hammered breech-loader, as well as the gun I had brought out with me.
There was a good supply of cartridges, including a stock for a .400
express which could not be found. I pocketed the revolver, and
searched till I discovered a good sheath-knife. If fighting was in
prospect I might as well look to my arms.

All the morning I sat among flour and sugar possessing my soul in as
much patience as I could command. Nothing came down the white road
from the west. The sun melted the rime; the flies came out and buzzed
in the window; Japp got himself out of bed, brewed strong coffee, and
went back to his slumbers. Presently it was dinner-time, and I went
over to a silent meal with Wardlaw. When I returned I must have fallen
asleep over a pipe, for the next thing I knew I was blinking drowsily
at the patch of sun in the door, and listening for footsteps. In the
dead stillness of the afternoon I thought I could discern a shuffling
in the dust. I got up and looked out, and there, sure enough, was some
one coming down the road.

But it was only a Kaffir, and a miserable-looking object at that. I
had never seen such an anatomy. It was a very old man, bent almost
double, and clad in a ragged shirt and a pair of foul khaki trousers.
He carried an iron pot, and a few belongings were tied up in a dirty
handkerchief. He must have been a dacha[1] smoker, for he coughed
hideously, twisting his body with the paroxysms. I had seen the type
before--the old broken-down native who had no kin to support him, and
no tribe to shelter him. They wander about the roads, cooking their
wretched meals by their little fires, till one morning they are found
stiff under a bush.

The native gave me a good-day in Kaffir, then begged for tobacco or a
handful of mealie-meal.

I asked him where he came from.

'From the west, Inkoos,' he said, 'and before that from the south. It
is a sore road for old bones.'

I wen