Two of a Trade.
When Dolf Norbury learned that another white man was coming to Majendwa’s country on trading intent, his first remark was that he was damned if he should. This statement he followed up with the use of absolutely unprintable language for the space of many minutes. His first act was to shy a bottle at the head of his informant, who ducked in time to avoid disastrous contact with the same, and then to make him exceedingly drunk with the contents of another bottle, not yet reduced to its last use—as a missile to wit. This by way of compensation.
The process had another effect, that of making the injured man talk. He for his part was a young Zulu of no particular account, and what he stated was perfectly true, he went on to declare. The white man was a trader known as Iqalaqala, and with him was another white man, a great fighter, who could knock men senseless with his fists even as one might do with a large and heavy stick. He who spoke knew, for he had seen it done—not once only, either. At this Dolf Norbury’s language grew vehement and sultry again, and was interlarded by many aspirations after just one glimpse of the man who could knock him senseless or knock him anything else. Only just one glimpse, that was all. The next thing he did, by way of relieving his feelings was to start in and thrash the nearest of his native wives—of which he had several—she, unfortunately for her, being the one of least family standing, and therefore the least likely to raise resentment on the part of the relatives—or others, a thing which is bad for trade. Then he opened a bottle of “square face,” took a very big drink, and putting the bottle in a pocket or his leather coat went round to the chief’s hut.
“I have news, Mawendhlela,” he began, when he found himself inside. “But”—with a look at some others who were seated there—“it will keep.”
Not long was it before these took the hint, and stole out, one by one. The chief’s eyes twinkled as he noted the familiar bulge in the pocket of his visitor.
“Au! it is cold,” he said, pretending to shiver, “and I am getting on in years and need warmth.”
“This will give it you,” said the white man, producing the bottle.
The chief’s eyes sparkled as he watched the gurgling rush of the potent liquid into the calabash drinking vessel. Then he tossed off half of it with a gasp of contentment.
“That is indeed warm—yes, warm,” he said.
“And good. But there will soon be no more.”