A little native girl--Zeeta, I found they
called her--was busy tidying it up, and when I entered she dropped me a
curtsy. 'This is your room, Baas,' she said in very good English in
reply to my question. The child had been well trained somewhere, for
there was a cracked dish full of oleander blossom on the drawers'-head,
and the pillow-slips on the bed were as clean as I could wish. She
brought me water to wash, and a cup of strong tea, while I carried my
baggage indoors and paid the driver of the cart. Then, having cleaned
myself and lit a pipe, I walked across the road to see Mr Wardlaw.

I found the schoolmaster sitting under his own fig-tree reading one of
his Kaffir primers. Having come direct by rail from Cape Town, he had
been a week in the place, and ranked as the second oldest white
resident.

'Yon's a bonny chief you've got, Davie,' were his first words. 'For
three days he's been as fou as the Baltic.'

I cannot pretend that the misdeeds of Mr Japp greatly annoyed me. I
had the reversion of his job, and if he chose to play the fool it was
all in my interest. But the schoolmaster was depressed at the prospect
of such company. 'Besides you and me, he's the only white man in the
place. It's a poor look-out on the social side.'

The school, it appeared, was the merest farce. There were only five
white children, belonging to Dutch farmers in the mountains. The
native side was more flourishing, but the mission schools at the
locations got most of the native children in the neighbourhood. Mr
Wardlaw's educational zeal ran high. He talked of establishing a
workshop and teaching carpentry and blacksmith's work, of which he knew
nothing. He rhapsodized over the intelligence of his pupils and
bemoaned his inadequate gift of tongues. 'You and I, Davie,' he said,
'must sit down and grind at the business. It is to the interest of
both of us. The Dutch is easy enough. It's a sort of kitchen dialect
you can learn in a fortnight. But these native languages are a stiff
job. Sesuto is the chief hereabouts, and I'm told once you've got that
it's easy to get the Zulu. Then there's the thing the Shangaans
speak--Baronga, I think they call it. I've got a Christian Kaffir
living up in one of the huts who comes every morning to talk to me for
an hour. You'd better join me.'

I promised, and in the sweet-smelling dust crossed the road to the
store. Japp was still sleeping, so I got a bowl of mealie porridge
fr