“Not Mehlo-ka-zulu?”
“He is my relative.”
Elvesdon burst out laughing.
“Confound the fellow, he reminds one of the Irish witness in ‘Handy Andy’,” he said. Then to the Zulu: “Where is your kraal?”
“La-pa. Over there.” And the speaker pointed with his stick in a direction which conveyed the idea that he resided anywhere between the further side of the valley and the North Pole.
Elvesdon did not press the point, knowing perfectly well that he could find out all he wanted from other sources. Then, too, the deft way in which the Zulu fenced all his questions appealed strongly to his sense of the ridiculous. There was, moreover, nothing to be gained in particular by continuing his catechism; and One of the secrets of his success in the handling of natives was that he knew when to humour them and when to draw a tight rein.
“Do you know who I am?” he said.
“Inkose is the magistrate—the new magistrate—at Kwabulazi.”
“That is so. But new only as regards Kwabulazi,” returned Elvesdon meaningly. “So knowing who I am it is not surprising if I ask: ‘What has a Zulu from beyond the border to do in Babatyana’s location on this side?’”
“Inkose—I have always heard that under the King’s rule all men are free, whether white or black, as long as they do no harm. And I am doing no harm.”