Part 8 (2/2)
John laughed. ”We're not paying our way at present,” he said, ”and I know my father grudged the money for his pa.s.sage home again so soon.
He'll grudge it still more now that his journey has turned out useless, and there are doctors' bills to pay in the bargain.”
The two young men had exchanged confidences during the latter part of their march to the farm. Charles Ferrier's father had been called to the Canadian bar, but he had never practised, his fortune being sufficient to keep him and his family in something more than comfort, and to pay for the sporting expeditions which were his real interest in life. Charles, who was twenty years old, had just come down from the McGill university, and his father had brought him to East Africa to ”give him a run,” as he put it, before he settled down to work.
”And his ambition for me was that I should enter the Canadian legislature,” said he, with a wry face. ”It's not work much after my mind; I'd prefer ranching like my grandfather. Poor father! D'you think I ought to stick to his notion now that he's gone?”
”I think every man should follow his own bent,” said John. ”The mischief is we mayn't know till it's too late what our bent is. For instance, I like this life out here, but I don't know I'll succeed at it, and some day I may eat my heart out because I didn't take up law, as my father wished. He's a good sort, and didn't urge it. Well, khansaman, what is it?” he asked, as Said Mohammed entered.
”Entreating your pardon, sir, Coja has made a discovery and is in an excessive state of amazement, jolly well flabbergasted, as it were. He declares that when you went on donkeys to visit the honourable gent you took three rifles marked with initials D.H., but lo! when he examines the weapons brought back, he finds four. Q.E.D.”
”That's rum, certainly,” said John. ”How did one of our rifles get into the hands of your men, Ferrier? We took three, as Coja says. Your messenger had one.”
”I don't know. Wait a bit, though: didn't you bring three rifles into camp? Of course: you took one from the man you half throttled outside our boma. But how could that be marked with your initials?”
”Tell Coja to bring it here, khansaman,” said John. ”I've a suspicion, Ferrier; we'll soon prove it.”
When Coja brought the rifle, John examined it carefully. It was a Snider.
”It's as I thought, Ferrier,” he said. ”This is one of the rifles run off with by those porters of ours--the sweeps! I don't like the look of it. Looks as though they've started an organized band of freebooters.
We shall have to report this at Fort Hall or Nairobi; perhaps you'll do that. I suppose you'll be off to-morrow to get that arm of yours properly attended to.”
”That's all right. It's beginning to heal, rather slowly though, and if you can put up with me for a few days I'd like to stay here. Food and rest is what I want more than doctors. Besides, if your deserters have joined that pack of savages they may make a raid on you, and I'll be of some use, even left-handed.”
”No, sah,” said Coja, ”bad man no come all dis way. Juma and dem debbils, oh yes! but not de Embe, oh no! dey never live for come long way.”
”Coja's right, Ferrier,” said John. ”By all accounts no natives will go raiding more than twenty miles from their village, except the Masai, and we haven't to deal with them. Juma and his Swahilis might come if they dared, but they won't venture without support. That'll do, Coja. How's your shoulder, by the way?”
”Jolly fine, sah. Bill him give me stuff to put on, berry good magic.”
”There you are, Ferrier,” cried John, laughing. ”We've got a doctor on the spot. Bill is a Wanderobbo we've made friends with, a little old man who lives by himself and tells fairy-tales about a wonderful store of ivory belonging to him in an enemy's country. He's by way of being a herbalist, too, it appears. We'll have a look at his 'berry good magic'
by and by.”
The magic turned out to be a decoction of herbs which Bill had smeared on Coja's wound, binding it up with leaves. He begged the new msungu to make a trial of it, and Ferrier after some hesitation consented. His wound healed more rapidly after the application, and Bill was delighted with the present of a few cents--without doubt the first doctor's fee he had ever earned.
Ferrier remained for the present at the farm, his healthy const.i.tution soon rea.s.serting itself after the strain of his recent experiences. His father's death had left him his own master. He had an only sister living with an aunt at Toronto, and he wrote to her and to the family lawyers, relating what had happened, but saying nothing of his intentions. The letters were entrusted to his porters, whom he dismissed with the exception of three. On reaching Nairobi, the men would take the train to Kisumu, and reach their homes in Uganda by steamer across the Victoria Nyanza.
It was more than a month since John had heard from his father. A few days after Ferrier's arrival he received a note which made him very angry.
”I'm on the mend. Doctor says my leg couldn't have healed better if I were ten years younger. Cousin Sylvia has been very good. Insists on making reparation for the damage (financial and physical) she has done me. 'Twas _her_ chauffeur, and _her_ motor-car, and so on. Upshot is that as you're getting on so well I'm inclined to accept her invitation of a run through the Continent. Will let you know when I sail. Cousin Sylvia sends her love.
”P.S. Glad to hear you got the lambing over well. Be sure and _don't wean them too soon_.”
This apparently innocent note made John furious.
”You see what it is!” he cried, striding up and down the room. ”That woman's got hold of him, and she'll marry him, and all our plans will be spoilt by an old--old--I don't know what to call her. Sends her love, indeed!”
Seeing that John was in a pa.s.sion, Ferrier wisely said nothing, and the storm presently blew over.
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