EXPLORING.
WALLY awoke in the early dawn, under the stimulus of a damp sponge pressed firmly against his face.
“Beast!” he said sleepily, and hit out in a wild fashion which had, very naturally, no effect. He opened his eyes, to see Jim, in his pyjamas, grinning at him over the end of the bed.
“Of all the restless animals!” said the injured Mr. Meadows. “Why ever can’t you stay peaceably in bed on the rare occasion that you’ve got one to stay in—instead of a creaking shelf? There can’t be anything wrong, or you wouldn’t have a grin like a Cheshire cat!”
“There is not,” said his chum, affably. “Only I couldn’t sleep, and it seemed such a pity for you to be slumbering. Let’s get up.”
“Get up! Whatever for?”
“Oh, just to be up! It’s too hot to be in bed—and everything out of doors looks so jolly. I’ve been out on the balcony for ever so long.”
“Go to Jericho!” said Mr. Meadows, with finality, and turned over to slumber anew. This laudable desire was frustrated by the gradual withdrawal of all bedclothes; then, as the victim seemed resigned to sleeping on the bare mattress, Jim rolled him up in it and deposited him head-first on the floor. At this point slumber left the scene finally, and the outraged Wally gave himself up to vengeance.
Calmness was restored a little later, and the dishevelled combatants regarded each other.
“You hit like the kick of a pony,” said Jim, with respect, rubbing his shoulder. “Isn’t it ripping to have space to move again? People of our size aren’t meant for ship’s cabins.”
“I was meant for bed,” said Wally, bestowing an affectionate glance on that once placid retreat. “And you are meant for the gallows—and some day you’ll get there! Now, what do you want to do? I’m awake.”
“I’d noticed it,” said Jim, still handling his shoulder carefully. “Wonderful how well you wake up when you make up your mind to it! Oh, I don’t quite know what to do! But come out, anyhow.”
“Well, we haven’t got very much shore time, so we may as well make the best of it,” Wally assented, searching among the débris of the room for his socks. “Land certainly does feel good under one’s feet once more. Do we go for a walk along the beach, or what?”
“No, I don’t want any more sea-views for a bit,” Jim answered. “We’ll have plenty for the next month. I vote we go into the town and explore a bit. There may be nothing to see, but it’s full of such queer people that you never know what you may run into if you go off the beaten track—and of course we can’t do that when Norah is with us.”
“No. It sounds as if it might be interesting,” Wally said. “Jim, you great camel, one of my socks is in the basin!—I hope to goodness I packed up another pair.” He dived for his suit-case, and sighed with relief on finding a further supply. “That saves your skin, old man. By the way, what about the native market?”
“I was wondering,” said Jim. “Of course, it’s Sunday—but one doesn’t know how our Sunday affects these brown and black gentry. The doctor said it began at some unearthly hour, and I think he said it was always open, so it might be available on a Sunday.”
“We might try,” Wally said. “Markets are generally best if you catch ’em in the very early morning. Do you know where it is?”
“Only that it’s the other side of the town from here,” Jim answered. “We may pick up a stray rickshaw; or if not, we’ll find some one to ask. Anyhow, it will be an exploration.”
“Right-oh!” Wally agreed. “Durban seems to me much like any other place if you omit the people—those queer coloured mixtures are the most interesting part, by a long way. I’d like to find that market.”
“Same here. It will be a walk, anyhow—and then we’ll get back in time for a swim before breakfast. No need to leave a note on the pincushion, like the eloping young ladies in novels, I suppose?”
“Oh, we’ll be back before they’re awake!” Wally said. “Anyhow, your father would understand that we had gone off on a voyage of discovery.”
They dressed hurriedly and went downstairs through the quiet house. A sleepy Indian boy let them out. The streets were empty save for a few native sweepers; already there was promise of a hot day, but the morning was cool and fresh. The sea a sheet of rippling blue that creamed at the edge in long, slow rollers. The boys turned off the main thoroughfares, and struck downwards to the city.
Everything seemed asleep. There was no movement in any of the houses they passed, and no traffic in the streets. Occasionally a sleepy dog barked from a verandah, but without energy. There were many sleepers on these verandahs; often they caught glimpses of stretcher-beds behind bamboo blinds, where open-air enthusiasts had slumbered in outdoor freshness through the hot night. “Quite like Australia,” said Wally, approvingly. “This place isn’t so much unlike Brisbane, in many ways.”
“So I was thinking,” Jim observed. “Brisbane is a bit grubbier, and has more smells, and not such a mixture of races; but the Kanakas you see there are not unlike the Kaffirs here, and the place itself has a good many points of resemblance. It’s a kind of half-way house to the Old World Cities, I suppose.” He took out his pipe, and looked half regretfully at his friend. “I wish you smoked.”
“Not me!” said Wally, sturdily. “You waited until you were nineteen, and I’m jolly well going to. Don’t you bother.”
“Oh, I don’t want you to start!” Jim said. “I think it’s a fool game to begin too young. But I just wish you could, that’s all—it would be sociable, and I feel rather a pig; you must be hungry. It was feeling hungry that made me want a pipe.”
“I daresay we’ll pick up some grub somewhere,” Wally said, cheerfully. “I’m not hungry enough to worry about.” He looked at Jim keenly. “I believe there are ever so many times that you don’t smoke just because I’m there, and you don’t think it is sociable. Go on, you old donkey.”
“Donkey yourself,” returned Jim, somewhat shamefacedly, but fishing in his pocket for his tobacco-pouch. “I never did anything so stupid.” He changed the subject with thankfulness, having in common with his chum a great horror of any conversation that approached what they called “softness.” “Look at that jolly little kid!”
A small, brown person sat on a doorstep and looked at them with grave eyes. He might possibly have been two years old, but his gaze had the solemnity of extreme old age. He was clad in a very brief pink nightgown, and his mop of curly hair was standing erect, just as he had tousled it in sleep.
“Good morning,” said Wally, stopping and addressing the baby with a gravity equal to its own. “I hope you’re well. Will you shake hands?”
The baby contemplated the outstretched hand for a moment, and glanced again at the boyish face. Then he put his hand into Wally’s and permitted himself the ghost of a grave smile.
“I’ve seldom seen a better-mannered gentleman,” said Wally, stepping back. “See if he’ll be as civil to you, Jim.”
He was, and the smile broadened, though apparently he had no speech—as Wally said, his grin made him independent of words. Jim produced a penny and put it into the tiny paw that matched it in colour. Then the door behind opened suddenly, and a Kaffir lady, evidently the baby’s mother, and clad in a nightgown strongly resembling his, appeared in search of her family—and at sight of the two boys, uttered a refined shriek and disappeared as quickly as she had come. The baby, regarding this performance as a circus, laughed very heartily; and Jim and Wally fled.
In the business part of Durban itself there was even less sign of life than among the cottages they had left. The shop-fronts were closely shuttered, and everywhere there was silence. Once, down a side-street, they caught sight of a native policeman, trim and smart in his dark blue, close-fitting uniform, his shapely brown legs bare from his knickerbockers, and a jaunty blue cap on one side of his close-cropped curly head; but he did not see them, and they went on. Jim paused for a moment.
“We might ask that fellow where the market is,” he said. “What do you think?”
“Oh, he’s rather out of our way, isn’t he?” Wally answered, easily. “And policemen have such a knack of moving off when you go after them; and you have to chase them for blocks. We’re sure to come across somebody soon.” To which Jim acquiesced; and thereby lost a chance of saving a good deal of trouble.
It was not an interesting city. The streets were dusty and untidy, and in the gutters was a litter of rubbish that spoke eloquently of Saturday night shopping. As they drew further and further away from the business centre there were signs of more foreign occupation—queer inscriptions in divers languages over the doorways of shuttered shops, and occasional glimpses of Oriental wares in dingy windows belonging to shops that did not rise to the dignity of shutters. Sometimes they had a brief vision of curious eyes regarding them from behind half-drawn curtains. They met an old Kaffir slinking along the gutter in search of some unsavoury booty, and questioned him about the market; but either he knew no English, or did not wish to understand them, for he only blinked and uttered guttural and unintelligible words, holding out a knotted old hand for money. The boys gave him some coppers and strolled on.
“Well, Durban takes some beating, for laziness, if not for religious fervour,” Jim said, at length. “I never saw a place more painfully quiet—there may be a mixture of races, but they all observe the Sabbath so far as sleeping goes. We’ll have to give it up and turn back, pretty soon, since apparently we shall have to walk all the way home; trams and rickshaws are as sound asleep as the inhabitants.”
“There’s a chap who may know something,” said Wally, quickly.
They had turned into a narrow street, and a rickshaw was coming slowly along towards them, drawn by a big Zulu. It was a shabby rickshaw, and the Zulu himself bore none of the adornments of his brethren in more fashionable regions; he wore ordinary knickerbockers and a blue jumper, and a single black feather was stuck through his tight curls.
“What a dingy-looking beggar!” Jim said. “He looks as if he’s been up all night.”
“Probably he has, and he’s tired,” Wally answered. “Anyhow, he’s safe to know about the market.”
They hailed the Zulu, who did not, at first, seem inclined to stop. He regarded them with sleepy, unfriendly eyes, but without curiosity—though the tall, fresh-faced boys, in their light flannels and Panama hats, were sufficiently unfamiliar figures in that mean street in the early morning, before folk were awake. They repeated their question—in answer he grunted ill-temperedly and resumed his slow walk.
“Oh, bother!” said Jim. “I’d better give him something, and loosen his tongue.”
He drew out a loose handful of change and selected a small silver coin, holding it out to the Zulu. The man’s eyes lit up, and he stopped and backed to the footpath.
“We may as well take him, if he wants a fare,” Wally said. “It isn’t a luxurious-looking chariot, but it will do.”
“Market?” queried Jim. “You know the market?”
The Zulu looked vacantly at them for a moment.
“Gen’lemen want go to market?”
“Yes—native market; not white man’s,” Jim explained. “You know it?”
The man still hesitated.
“Yes,” he said at length. “You been there?”
“No,” said Jim, impatiently. “We want to go. Is it open on Sundays?”
“Yes,” said the Zulu, after a pause. “Take you?” He looked at them keenly.
“Yes—go ahead,” Jim said. They climbed into the rickshaw, and the Zulu jogged off.
He seemed to know his way readily enough. Up one poor street after another he trotted, his slow strides covering a great deal of ground. The locality grew more and more depressing: mean houses gave place to ramshackle cottages, many of them mere huts, separated by tumble-down fences, occasionally interspersed with grimy shops that were little more than stalls. Depressed-looking fowls scratched in the gutters, and mangy curs lay about every doorstep.
“Well, this is about as unpromising an approach to a market as one could imagine,” Jim remarked. “I’m glad we didn’t try to bring Norah—that kid hates smells.”
“Probably he’s taking us by short cuts,” Wally said; “he’s evidently tired, and this unsavoury rabbit-warren may lead out into the market-place. It can’t possibly be the usual approach; it’s too narrow, and there is no sign of much traffic.”
“I expect you’re right,” Jim answered. “Or else his happy home is in the locality, and he doesn’t mean to go past it. I’ll have a word to say to him, if he leaves us here.”
“You may, but it’s doubtful if he’ll understand you,” Wally grinned. “The conversation of these gentlemen is limited—though I fancy they understand a good deal more than one would think. Now, what’s his game?”
The rickshaw had swung round a corner, and into a yard, through an open gate. A closed house gave no sign of life; across the yard was a stable, and over the half-door a mule poked out a sleepy head. The Zulu put down the shafts and turned to the boys, saying something that was only half intelligible.
“Not can do?” Jim said angrily, catching his drift. “What do you bring us here for, then?” He got out, followed by Wally.
“Short cut,” said the man, apologetically. “Can show market—through there.” He pointed to a door in the high board fence. “Me bad feet—gone too many trips.”
“He looks footsore enough,” Wally said, scanning the slouching form. “No good bothering about him, Jim—let’s pay him and clear out.”
Another Zulu had come out of the stable, in which he appeared to have slept with the mule. The first man shot a short, clicking sentence at him, pointing to his feet.
“Well, I don’t know what he expects, but that’s all he’s going to get,” Jim said, handing the sullen Zulu some money. “Now, where’s your market?” he added, sharply. “Hurry up!”
“Market close through here, sir,” the man answered, more respectfully than he had yet spoken. He led the way to the door in the fence, the boys at his heels, and stood aside for them to pass through.
“Why, it’s another yard——” Jim began, turning.
He had no time for more. The Zulu’s fist shot out and took him between the eyes, and he staggered through the doorway. At the same instant a violent blow on the back of the head sent Wally headlong on top of his friend. They went down in a heap together, unable to defend themselves. A shower of blows with heavy sticks beat them back as they struggled to rise. Jim tried to shout, but his voice died away helplessly; he flung out his hand, finding only Wally’s face, strangely wet. Then he lost consciousness.