This was rather characteristic of him: where other people would have been sleepless from discomfort of body and wear of mind, he was sleeping sweetly; but then he is always thinking or doing what you don’t expect. In talking over ways and means or plans of campaign, he almost invariably throws quite a new light on the subject, and has a totally different plan, and one which is often the best of the lot, especially from the Chartered Company’s point of view, as far as ultimate results go, not present expenditure—that is the point that often makes us pause, but he never seems to think of it, for he looks to the better economy in the end. And while he talks he doesn’t sit still, but he’ll be sprawling all over the sofa one minute, the next he’ll have his legs crossed under him, à la Turc—full of restlessness and energy.
23rd November.—Meet of the hounds at Rhodes’ house. The pack has been kept in the laager during the dangerous time—fed on Boer meal. Is hunted by Graham, the Postmaster. We were a field of twenty–seven,—which is not bad, considering how few horses are now fit for work,—all in shirt sleeves. One lady (Lady Victoria Grey). We got on to a buck within half a mile of the house, and had a gallop. I was riding near Rhodes, who was thoroughly enjoying the working of the hounds, till suddenly something better attracted his notice, and we passed under the telegraph line from Cape Town to, or rather towards, Cairo—and he at once went into particulars of that, and showed how the iron posts were made, according to his design, in two parts, so that they would not be too heavy for niggers to carry in the bush and fly country—wooden poles useless, on account of the inroads of white ants; and then we continued our gallop.
Talking of inroads,—we hear that the jigger, an insect the size of a pin’s head, is invading South Africa. He came from the West Coast, and is now down as far as Beira. I know the beast: he got me coming back from Kumassi, and planted his eggs under my toe–nail, and I had ten minutes’ genuine fun while the doctor cut them out.
Curious how the little pest should be able to cross Africa, and make himself a scourge in a new bit of country,—just as the rinderpest has done,—taking three years to get here from Somaliland.
25th November.—I dined with Wilson Fox, old Carthusian, Public Prosecutor, Director of Commissariat and Transport, and a good singer—so pretty useful all round.
This morning I took a toss off my bike and damaged my knees, so that I stand over like an old cab–horse.
27th November.—For the past four days the telegraph line between this and Cape Town has been down, and we have been unable to get sanction to our proposed move out of the country. The rains are beginning (thunderstorms nearly every afternoon), a man per day dying for the last six days, which is a large order in so small a force.
Dined at Lord Grey’s to–night, and there also dined the Count and Countess de la P——e. No more interesting couple could be found in the country. I listened open–mouthed to their adventures. He was formerly captain in the French navy and A.D.C. to MacMahon, and has four war medals and ten orders. She was “slavey” in a London boarding–house. They came up here before women were allowed in the country—she dressed as a boy, and so got admitted. They started with £40 and one cow; in three years they owned a large farm and 160 cows, and were clearing £250 a month dairy–farming and butchering. Rinderpest and rebellion suddenly stopped this, and swept away all they had. He took his waggon and span of donkeys to Chimoio, and spent the whole of their money in getting a load of food and luxuries to sell in Salisbury. She remained at the farm, with one nigger boy to protect her.