h swirled over
blue rocks into deep fern-fringed pools. All around was a tableland of
lush grass with marigolds and arum lilies instead of daisies and
buttercups. Thickets of tall trees dotted the hill slopes and patched
the meadows as if some landscape-gardener had been at work on them.
Beyond, the glen fell steeply to the plains, which ran out in a faint
haze to the horizon. To north and south I marked the sweep of the
Berg, now rising high to a rocky peak and now stretching in a level
rampart of blue. On the very edge of the plateau where the road dipped
for the descent stood the shanties of Blaauwildebeestefontein. The
fresh hill air had exhilarated my mind, and the aromatic scent of the
evening gave the last touch of intoxication. Whatever serpent might
lurk in it, it was a veritable Eden I had come to.

Blaauwildebeestefontein had no more than two buildings of civilized
shape; the store, which stood on the left side of the river, and the
schoolhouse opposite. For the rest, there were some twenty native
huts, higher up the slope, of the type which the Dutch call rondavels.
The schoolhouse had a pretty garden, but the store stood bare in a
patch of dust with a few outhouses and sheds beside it. Round the door
lay a few old ploughs and empty barrels, and beneath a solitary blue
gum was a wooden bench with a rough table. Native children played in
the dust, and an old Kaffir squatted by the wall.

My few belongings were soon lifted from the Cape-cart, and I entered
the shop. It was the ordinary pattern of up-country store--a bar in
one corner with an array of bottles, and all round the walls tins of
canned food and the odds and ends of trade. The place was empty, and a
cloud of flies buzzed over the sugar cask.

Two doors opened at the back, and I chose the one to the right. I
found myself in a kind of kitchen with a bed in one corner, and a
litter of dirty plates on the table. On the bed lay a man, snoring
heavily. I went close to him, and found an old fellow with a bald
head, clothed only in a shirt and trousers. His face was red and
swollen, and his breath came in heavy grunts. A smell of bad whisky
hung over everything. I had no doubt that this was Mr Peter Japp, my
senior in the store. One reason for the indifferent trade at
Blaauwildebeestefontein was very clear to me: the storekeeper was a sot.

I went back to the shop and tried the other door. It was a bedroom
too, but clean and pleasant.