The man, of course, lied; he could read their message as well as any other native of his tribe within earshot.
"Go, give my message to Nanzela."
The man turned to go, bidding the white man rest in peace.
"Go safely," was the reply.
Presently the cook announced "Dinner ready, sir," and Wrenshaw moved to the small camp table. The moment he sat down he felt he could not eat. He had decided on his lonely journey in the heat of the moment—of the midday sun, as it were; now that it was dark and cold, he wished he had brought one of his assistants with him.
On second thoughts he was very glad he had come alone. If there was going to be trouble—and it looked uncommonly like it—a life might have been needlessly sacrificed.
His cook aroused him from his mooning by: "Soup's cold, sir."
"Well, take it away and bring something else! What is there?"
"Guinea-fowl and some native peas, sir."
"All right, and give me a drink."