Churton raised the glass.
“Here’s to you!” he said significantly. “What was it? Hemp?”
“Yes—ganja. They have given up brewing it because we were watching for the still, but they’ve got some of the crop, and they are teaching the natives to smoke it like opium. It means a fresh raid.”
“And more slaughter! Well, I shall be glad of a little diversion.” An ugly, dark look flitted over the soldier’s face, and wrinkled his broad forehead. There seemed more grey in his thick dark hair of late, and a line of pain round the firm lips. “Any notion where the trouble rises?” he said.
“I have an idea that it’s beyond China Town, in that valley between the Tableland and Hashish.”
“But, my dear fellow, there’s no way through—it’s all ‘dirty,’ and as full of scrub as it can be. I came down that way from shooting on the Tableland and found it nearly impassable. No room for crops.”
“There’s room for storage. I don’t mean in the valley itself, but nearer the Little Zambesi. Anyhow I shall raid Sand Bay. There are caves there.”
Churton sat thoughtfully for a minute, the tumbler in his strong brown hand. He felt desperately that he would be glad of a scrimmage, if only the beggars would show fight. But when was a coloured man game enough?
“They’ve been quiet for this last month or so,” he said regretfully. “Ever since that little demonstration in your garden here.”
“That was a flash in the pan—it meant nothing.”