Chapter Twelve.
A Turn of the Wheel.
“Oh, lucky Jim!
How I envy hi-im!
Oh-h, Lucky Jim—
“Get up, old sportsman! It’s time for ‘scoff.’” And the singer thus breaking off from song to prose, dives his head into the tent door, and apostrophises about six-foot-one of recumbent humanity.
“All right, Jack! A fellow isn’t dead that it requires all that infernal row to wake him,” retorts Justin Spence, rather testily, for his dreams in the heat of the blazing forenoon have been all of love and roses, and the brusque awakening from such to the rough delights of a prospector’s camp in the wilds of sultry Mashunaland, is likely not to supply a soothing contrast.
His partner takes no notice of the passing ill-humour save for a light laugh, as he returns to his former occupation, the superintending and part assisting at, a certain cooking process under the shade of a tree, effected by a native boy and now nearly completed. A tent and a small waggon supply the residential quarters, the latter for the “boys,” who turn in on the ground underneath it—the former for their masters. A “scherm” of chopped boughs encloses the camp, and within this the donkeys are safeguarded at night: a case of learning wisdom by experience, for already two of these useful little animals have fallen a prey to lions through being left thus unprotected. Just outside this is a partially sunken shaft, surmounted by a rude windlass.
“What have we got for ‘scoff,’ Jack?” says Justin Spence, yawning lazily as he withdraws his dripping hands from the calabash wash-basin, and saunters across to the scene of culinary operations. “Oh, Lord!” giving a sniff or two as a vile and carrion-like effluvium strikes upon his nostrils. “There’s one of those beastly stink-ants around somewhere. Here, Sixpence!” calling to one of a trio of Mashuna boys lounging beneath the shade of the waggon aforesaid. “Hamba petula stink-ant—what the deuce is the word, Jack? ’Iye, yes, that’s it Bulal’iye. Comprenny? Well, clear then. Hamba. Scoot.”
A splutter of bass laughter went up from the natives at this lucid direction, which, however, the other man soon made clear.
“Oh, never mind about the stink-ant,” he said. “Why, man, it’s all in the day’s work. You must get used to these little trifles, or you’ll never do any good at prospecting.”
“Oh, damn prospecting! I hate it,” returned Justin, stretching his graceful length upon the ground. “Ladle out the scoff and let’s fall to. I want to have another smoke.”