no more the clear grey
of the 'Blue Wildebeeste's Spring,' but growing muddy with its approach
to the richer soil of the plains.

Oxen travel slow, and we outspanned that night half a day's march short
of Umvelos'. I spent the hour before sunset lounging and smoking with
the Dutch farmers. At first they had been silent and suspicious of a
newcomer, but by this time I talked their taal fluently, and we were
soon on good terms. I recall a discussion arising about a black thing
in a tree about five hundred yards away. I thought it was an aasvogel,
but another thought it was a baboon. Whereupon the oldest of the
party, a farmer called Coetzee, whipped up his rifle and, apparently
without sighting, fired. A dark object fell out of the branch, and
when we reached it we found it a baviaan[1] sure enough, shot through
the head. 'Which side are you on in the next war?' the old man asked
me, and, laughing, I told him 'Yours.'

After supper, the ingredients of which came largely from my naachtmaal,
we sat smoking and talking round the fire, the women and children being
snug in the covered wagons. The Boers were honest companionable
fellows, and when I had made a bowl of toddy in the Scotch fashion to
keep out the evening chill, we all became excellent friends. They
asked me how I got on with Japp. Old Coetzee saved me the trouble of
answering, for he broke in with Skellum! Skellum![2] I asked him his
objection to the storekeeper, but he would say nothing beyond that he
was too thick with the natives. I fancy at some time Mr Japp had sold
him a bad plough.

We spoke of hunting, and I heard long tales of exploits--away on the
Limpopo, in Mashonaland, on the Sabi and in the Lebombo. Then we
verged on politics, and I listened to violent denunciations of the new
land tax. These were old residenters, I reflected, and I might learn
perhaps something of value. So very carefully I repeated a tale I said
I had heard at Durban of a great wizard somewhere in the Berg, and
asked if any one knew of it. They shook their heads. The natives had
given up witchcraft and big medicine, they said, and were more afraid
of a parson or a policeman than any witch-doctor. Then they were
starting on reminiscences, when old Coetzee, who was deaf, broke in and
asked to have my question repeated.

'Yes,' he said, 'I know. It is in the Rooirand. There is a devil
dwells there.'

I could get no more out of him beyond the fact that there w