Chapter Twenty Two.
A Solomon—in the Zulu.
Suddenly Arlo, who had been trotting along placidly beside the waggons stopped short, looking backward, and emitting low growls, which soon changed to a deep-toned, booming bark. We followed his glance. The Zulus were on the crest of the ridge about half a mile behind. I at once gave orders to the drivers to resume their normal pace. Further flight—as flight—was useless and impolitic.
“Put the dog into the tent waggon and tie him there,” I said to Falkner. “He knows you better than he does me, and might give me trouble. We don’t want him damaged at any rate.”
Even Falkner found it by no means easy to work his will with the now infuriated animal, which with hackles erect was facing in the direction of the impending aggression, making the air resound with his roaring bark; and only he managed it by his characteristically drastic methods in the shape of a double reim well laid on. As it was I thought the dog would have pinned him. However he managed to get him into the tent waggon and securely tied. Hardly had he rejoined me when the whole crowd was upon us, shouting and roaring as they surrounded the waggons, bringing them to a standstill.
“I see you!” I said, coldly sarcastic. “Well, and what is it you want now?”
For I had recognised several who had taken part in the former riot, what time Dolf Norbury had appeared upon the scene.
“Want? What we want is the dog—the white dog,” came the reply. “The dog which you have stolen, Abelungu.”
“The white dog. The dog which we have stolen,” I repeated sarcastically. “But the dog belongs to our people on the other side—and we are taking him back. If he has been stolen it is from them.”