“I don’t quite know what to make of it just now, Prior. Things are shaping out. But you keep your ears open. You were born and bred on this frontier, and you know these chaps and their ways a good deal better than I do. You can grip things that I should probably miss entirely. So don’t let anything pass.”
It was just by such frank and hearty appreciation of their capabilities that Elvesdon endeared himself to his subordinates, hence this one’s dictum upon him to Thornhill on a former occasion.
“You may rely upon me, sir,” answered Prior, intensely gratified. “I’ll do my very best—all along the line.”
“And that will be a very good kind of best, Prior, judging from my short experience of you. Hullo! Come in.”
This in response to another knock at the door. It was opened and there entered a native constable.
“Nkose! The chief has arrived. The chief, Zavula. He would have a word with Nkose.”
“Admit him,” said Elvesdon, cramming a fresh fill into his pipe.
There was a sound of light footsteps, made by bare feet, outside, and old Zavula appeared in the doorway. His right hand was uplifted, and he poured forth words of sibongo in the liquid Zulu. Elvesdon arose and shook the old man by the hand. He was always especially courteous to men of rank among the natives—a fact which they fully appreciated.
“Greeting, my father. I am glad to see you,” he said. “Sit. Here is snuff. It is a good accompaniment for a talk.”
Zavula subsided on to the floor—a native of course would be supremely uncomfortable on a chair. Prior, with ready tact, had withdrawn. There were those who said that Elvesdon was too free and easy with natives, that he allowed them too much equality. Well, he had never found his official dignity suffer by the line he took, but that line he knew where to draw, and occasionally did—with effect. But Zavula was one of Nature’s gentlemen.