What Hlabulana Revealed.
In the quadrangle, or courtyard, known as Ulundi Square, in the Royal Hotel at Durban, two men sat talking. One we already know, the other, a wiry, bronzed, and dark-bearded man of medium height, was known to his acquaintance as Joe Fleetwood, and among the natives as “U’ Joe,” and he was an up-country trader.
“You did the right thing, Wyvern, when you decided to come up here,” the latter was saying, “and in a few months’ time”—lowering his voice—“if we pull off this jaunt all right, we need neither of us ever take our jackets off again for the rest of our natural lives.”
“Not, eh? Didn’t know you could make such a rapid fortune in the native trade.”
The other smiled drily.
“Look here, Wyvern. You only landed last night—and a most infernal bucketing you seem to have got on that poisonous bar in doing so. So that we’ve had no opportunity of having a straight, square talk. We won’t have it here—too many doors and windows about for that I propose, therefore, that we get on a tram and run down to the back beach—we’ll have it all to ourselves there. First of all, though, we’ll have these glasses refilled. I don’t believe in starting dry. Boy!”
A turbaned Indian waiter glided up, and reappeared in a moment with two long tumblers.
“That’s good,” exclaimed Fleetwood, having poured down more than half of the sparkling contents of his. “Durban is one of the thirstiest places I’ve ever struck.”
Not much was said as they took their way through the bustle of the streets, bright with the gaudy clothes worn by the Indian population, whose thin, chattering voices formed as great a contrast to the deep, sonorous tones of the manly natives of the land as did their respective owners in aspect and physique.
“By Jove! it brings back old times, seeing these head-ringed chaps about again,” said Wyvern, turning to look at a particularly fine specimen of them that had just stalked past. “I wonder if I’d like to go over all our campaigning ground again.”