“Another seven years’ ill luck!” shouted zu Pfeiffer, sitting on the bed in his shirt. He glared at Bakunjala standing in the door, too terror-stricken to flee, convinced that he would be blamed for breaking the glass. “You—you superstitious nigger!” yelled zu Pfeiffer, and added more calmly in Kiswahili: “Fetch me a brandy-soda! Upesi, you son of a baboon!”
“Bwana!” exclaimed Bakunjala and fled gladly.
Zu Pfeiffer sat and scowled at the scattered pieces of [pg 68] mirror until Bakunjala arrived with the drink. An hour later he emerged in his immaculate undress uniform and sat on the north verandah, drank vermouth and smoked cigars, staring out across the flat swamp where the pewter of the lake was flecked with silver and blood of the sinking sun. From beyond the fort came the yaps of the drill-sergeant busy in the cool of the afternoon. At the bark of the relieving guard, zu Pfeiffer rose and walked around the house to watch, with tetchy eyes, the saluting of the flag.
As he stalked off to dinner in the messroom eyes glimmered in the darkness about him. Bakunjala, after receiving punishment, was indisposed, in fact incapable of attending to his duties in the spritely manner required. Another servant, who had taken his place, was nervous of the probable consequences, and had a keen eye for the appearance of the devil so realistically described by Bakunjala. But the demon apparently slept, for zu Pfeiffer took the dishes placed before him with an unaccustomed meekness, pushed them away absent-mindedly, and rising, retired to his study. Even when the deputy brought the wrong bottle he reprimanded him mildly without taking his eyes off the photograph in the ivory frame.
Yet, with the port, he did not omit to rise, and heels together, raise his glass to the “Ihre Hochheit.” Then sprawling in the chair he began to drink and to smoke steadily.
As the notes of the last post stuttered out in the clammy stillness he summoned the “boy” and bade him fetch Sergeant Schultz. At the sound of the sergeant’s steps on the verandah zu Pfeiffer stiffened up and patted his lips as if desiring to erase the lines that [pg 69] were graven thereon; and with one foot pushed the chair from the direct angle to the photograph.
“Take a cigar,” said zu Pfeiffer, when the man had entered. The words were rather an order than an invitation. Sergeant Schultz obeyed. Zu Pfeiffer smoked reflectively, still regarding the photograph out of the corner of his eyes as if unable to resist the fascination.
“How long have you been in this benighted country, sergeant?”
“Nine years, Excellence.”
“You wish to retire on the pension at the year’s term?”