“My idea? There’ll be hell let loose, d’rectly. Nothing’ll stop it. You’d better warn Waybridge, from me, to trek.”
“No!”
“Yes. See. None of ’em come round trading now; no, not even for drinks. Just now, though, I had a robustious mob of Sandili’s Gaikas round here buying ox-tails. There’s been a trade in them lately.”
“What do they want them for, eh? Ox-tail soup?”
The other looked at him pityingly—then emitted a dry guffaw.
“Soup? War fal-lals, that’s what they’re for. And there are other signs.”
“Now I come to think of it, I’ve seen them before, in the Transkei.”
“Yes. You did service there with the Police, I’m told. Well, we don’t want to scare the young lady, but you tip the office from me to Waybridge to clear. There’ll be hell in a week or two at the outside.”
“I’ll tell him. But are you going to remain on here?”
“I dare say. They won’t hurt me. It wouldn’t pay them for one thing. Have a drop of grog?”