“I’m not going to now,” he said shortly, “but I’ll accommodate you where and when you like, after the gymkhana’s over. We can’t start bruising now, with a lot of ladies on the scene. Now, can we?”
The bystanders, thus appealed to, saw the sense of this. Besides, they were not going to be done out of their fun this time. It was only fun adjourned.
“No, no. That’s quite right and reasonable. Jim, you can’t kick up a row here now. Take it out of him afterwards,” were some of the cries that arose.
“He won’t be there. He’ll scoot.”
“Oh no, I won’t,” answered Lamont. “I’ll be there,”—“if any of us are,” he added to himself grimly.
He finished his liquor and went outside. There was a lull in the proceedings, and people were moving about and talking, pending the distribution of the prizes.
“Greeting, Qubani. That is good. Last time we talked was ‘kwa Zwabeka.’”
“Ou! Lamonti is my father,” answered the old witch-doctor. Then, having fired off a long string of sibongo, he concluded that the sun was very hot, and it was long since he had drunk anything.
“That shall be presently when these are gone,” said Lamont. “But first—walk round with me, and I will show you where the horses race. It is good to see the chief of all izanusi again.”
The old ruffian complied, nothing loth. He was thinking that the more exuberant his friendliness the more completely would he lull all suspicion among these fools of whites. He professed himself profoundly interested in everything explained to him.