He was obviously right, for each ox, as Baker approached, seemed to know what to expect and tamely submitted.
A few days out from Bulawayo Baker came back from the water carrying fish. He had caught them, he said, in the large water-hole. It never occurred to me that there would be any fish in the almost dried-up rivers which we crossed from time to time. Baker assured me that where there was water there were fish, but you must know how to catch them.
A day or two later we outspanned close to some water-holes. Baker said he was going to catch some fish, and asked me whether I would like to come too. I said I should, and began unpacking a rod and some tackle which I had bought in London with the intention of fishing for tiger-fish in the Zambesi.
Baker watched me unpack and make my selection. He seemed much amused. Presently he drew from his pocket his own tackle, which appeared to me to be a confused mass of tangled string and hooks.
We set out. Baker stopped at a small deep hole containing clear water. It was my turn to smile. The pool he was going to fish in was a little larger than a water-butt.
I went on, and found a fairly long pool. The water was rather muddy, and I found little depth anywhere. However, I hoped for the best, and fished just clear of the bottom. I used as bait a small piece of meat from a wild pigeon's breast, recommended by Baker.
I have a certain amount of patience, but not, I fancy, quite sufficient to entitle me to describe myself as a fisherman. After about two hours of this fiddling, I gave it up and went in search of Baker.
To my amazement, he had quite a score of fish on the grass by his side.
"Did you catch all those?" I asked.
"Yes."