Part 11 (2/2)
CHAPTER TWELVE.
A TURN OF THE WHEEL.
”Oh, lucky Jim!
How I envy hi-im!
Oh-h, Lucky Jim--
”Get up, old sportsman! It's time for 'scoff.'” And the singer thus breaking off from song to prose, dives his head into the tent door, and apostrophises about six-foot-one of rec.u.mbent humanity.
”All right, Jack! A fellow isn't dead that it requires all that infernal row to wake him,” retorts Justin Spence, rather testily, for his dreams in the heat of the blazing forenoon have been all of love and roses, and the brusque awakening from such to the rough delights of a prospector's camp in the wilds of sultry Mashunaland, is likely not to supply a soothing contrast.
His partner takes no notice of the pa.s.sing ill-humour save for a light laugh, as he returns to his former occupation, the superintending and part a.s.sisting at, a certain cooking process under the shade of a tree, effected by a native boy and now nearly completed. A tent and a small waggon supply the residential quarters, the latter for the ”boys,” who turn in on the ground underneath it--the former for their masters. A ”scherm” of chopped boughs encloses the camp, and within this the donkeys are safeguarded at night: a case of learning wisdom by experience, for already two of these useful little animals have fallen a prey to lions through being left thus unprotected. Just outside this is a partially sunken shaft, surmounted by a rude windla.s.s.
”What have we got for 'scoff,' Jack?” says Justin Spence, yawning lazily as he withdraws his dripping hands from the calabash wash-basin, and saunters across to the scene of culinary operations. ”Oh, Lord!” giving a sniff or two as a vile and carrion-like effluvium strikes upon his nostrils. ”There's one of those beastly stink-ants around somewhere.
Here, Sixpence!” calling to one of a trio of Mashuna boys lounging beneath the shade of the waggon aforesaid. ”_Hamba petula_ stink-ant-- what the deuce is the word, Jack? _'Iye_, yes, that's it _Bulal'iye_.
Comprenny? Well, clear then. _Hamba_. Scoot.”
A splutter of ba.s.s laughter went up from the natives at this lucid direction, which, however, the other man soon made clear.
”Oh, never mind about the stink-ant,” he said. ”Why, man, it's all in the day's work. You must get used to these little trifles, or you'll never do any good at prospecting.”
”Oh, d.a.m.n prospecting! I hate it,” returned Justin, stretching his graceful length upon the ground. ”Ladle out the scoff and let's fall to. I want to have another smoke.”
”Oh, Lucky Jim!
How I envy him--”
resumed Jack Skelsey, while engaged in the above occupation.
”So do I, Jack, or anybody else to whom that word 'lucky' can be said to apply--and I'm afraid whoever that is it'll never be us.”
”You never can tell, old man. Luck generally strikes a chap when least expected.”
”Then now's the time for it to strike me; right now, Jack.”
”Oh, I don't know we've much to grouse about, Spence. It's beastly hot up here, and we're sweating our souls out all for nothing. But after all, it's better than being stuck away all one's life in a musty old office, sometimes not even seeing the blessed light of day for a week at a time, if it happens to be foggy--a miserable jet of gas the only subst.i.tute for yonder jolly old sun. Rather! I've tried it and you haven't. See?”
n.o.body could have looked upon that simple camp without thoroughly agreeing with the speaker. It was hot certainly, but there were trees which afforded a cool and pleasant shade: while around for many a mile stretched a glorious roll of bush veldt--all green and golden in the unclouded sunlight--and the chatter of monkeys, the cackle of the wild guinea-fowl, the shrill crow of the bush pheasant together with the gleam of bright-winged birds glancing overhead, bespoke that this beautiful wilderness was redundant with life. The two men lounging there, with bronzed races and chests, their s.h.i.+rtsleeves turned up from equally bronzed wrists, looked the picture of rude health: surely if ever there was such a thing as a free life--open--untrammelled--this was it.
The day was Sunday, which may account for the lazy way in which we found one at any rate of the pair, spending the morning. For they had made it a rule to do no work on that day, not, we fear, from any particularly religious motive, but acting on the thoroughly sound and wholesome plan of taking one day in seven ”off.” A thoroughly sound and wholesome appet.i.te had they too. When they had done, Skelsey remarked:
”Shall we go and have a shoot?”
The other, who was tugging at a knot in the strings of his tobacco bag, looked up quickly.
”Er--no. At least I won't go,” he said rather nervously. ”Er--I think I'll ride over to Blachland's.”
”All right, old chap. Let's go there instead.”
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