The old chief, having spent two or three minutes filling up his nostrils with snuff, began—
“It is good to see Nkose again. I have seen him but once when he first arrived here, and could see that the Government had sent us a man—one who could understand us—and my heart felt good. Now I see him again.”
“Those who rule over the people are always welcome, my father,” returned Elvesdon. “What is the news?”
“News? Au! I know not, Ntwezi. Is this a time for news? Or a time for quiet? I am old, very old, and my sons are in the land of the Great Unknown. You, who are young, of the age they would be were they still here, to you comes news from all the world.”
The old man’s eyes shone with a kindly twinkle. He had used Elvesdon’s native nickname—not in itself an uncomplimentary one—instead of the respectful ‘Nkose’ such as he should have used when addressing his magistrate, yet the latter thoroughly appreciated the difference. There was no fear of the old chief encroaching upon his official dignity by this momentary lapse into speaking of him in the same breath as his dead sons.
They talked a little on commonplaces—yet not altogether, for both were fencing up to more serious import. Elvesdon, with his knowledge of native ways, did not hurry his visitor. He knew, instinctively, that the latter had come to see him on some subject of more or less importance: how much so he had yet to learn. He noticed, too, that Zavula had brought in with him a bundle—an ordinary looking bundle of no size, done up in a dingy rag. His quick, deductive instinct had taken this in, where most white men would have overlooked it completely—especially if hide-bound by officialism. A chief of Zavula’s standing did not carry his own loads, however small. Elvesdon’s curiosity was aroused, and grew, with regard to that bundle.
It, now, Zavula proceeded to untie. From the wrapper he produced an ordinary drinking bowl of black, porous clay. It was not a clean bowl either for the inside showed thick smears of dried up tywala. This he placed carefully upon the ground before him. Elvesdon watched this development with growing curiosity.
“Nkose,” said the old man, looking up. “Where is Udokotela?”
This, which was a mere corruption of the English word ‘doctor,’ referred to the District Surgeon.
“You will have far to go to find him, Zavula. Are you then sick?”