"Whisky or gin, sir?"
"Whisky to-night; not much, just a little."
After a drink Wrenshaw felt more settled and attacked the guinea-fowl.
Presently he started up and walked a few paces from his camp and listened.
His message must have reached Nanzela: a roar of distant laughter, followed by a hum of voices, arose from the encamped Barushu. Then the drums began again, but this time they beat to a song well known to Wrenshaw, a song to which natives dance.
Stop the pig and see where he will pass;
Stop him! Stop him! Stop him!
That Nanzela should see in his message a huge joke slightly annoyed Wrenshaw, but he reflected that people with a sense of humour were more easily dealt with than those in a sullen mood. Yes, it was, perhaps, a ridiculous thing for him to have come alone on such an errand.
He went back to his table and attacked the guinea-fowl once more, this time with vigour.
After dinner he lit his pipe and ordered a large billy-can of coffee made very strong. He had a long night in front of him.
He made no attempt to sleep; he wouldn't risk it. The Barushu had, in days gone by, a nasty habit of making a night attack. He didn't expect them to attack him, especially after their laughter; but he intended to take no risks.