“Hallo, Glanton. You’re never going to leave that there?” said Falkner, as I deliberately put down my rifle outside the gate before entering. “I’m hanged if I’ll leave mine.”
“But you must. It’s etiquette.”
“Oh blazes, but I don’t like it,” he grumbled, as he complied reluctantly. However Majendwa, whose ready tact had seen through his reluctance, told me we need not disarm there, and in fact we had better bring in our weapons, for there was nothing he enjoyed so much as inspecting firearms.
As we passed among the huts, I greeted several men whom I knew personally. Falkner the while staring curiously about him.
“I tell you what, Glanton. Some of these are devilish fine-looking girls,” he remarked. “Quite light coloured too, by Jove.”
I rendered this for the benefit of the chief that my companion observed that the women of the Abaqulusi were far better looking than any he had ever seen in Zululand, which evoked a laugh from those men who heard, and a delighted squeal from those of the sex thus eulogised. Then Falkner committed his first blunder.
We had gained the chief’s hut, and stooping down, I had entered the low door first, Falkner following. When halfway through he drew back.
“Dash it all!” he exclaimed, “I’ve dropped my matchbox.”
“Never mind. Come right through,” I warned. “Don’t stop on any account.”
But it was too late. He had already crawled back, and picked up the lost article.