Presently he got up and went out to the verandah to stretch his legs. He admired his garden and mentally praised his own cunning in setting it out. The rains had not yet broken but some of the trees were already in new leaf. What a blaze of colour there would be in a few weeks!
"Morena, what day is it to-day?"
Turning, he met the gaze of a garden labourer who, spade in hand, was standing slightly in advance of some half a dozen of his fellows.
"The sixth. But why do you ask?"
"It is because black people do not know how to count, and one day with us is as another."
All returned to their work. A few minutes later the dog boy came with a litter born during his master's absence. They were a likely looking lot and the native took personally the remarks passed upon his charge: he appeared to assume responsibility for their colour, shape and sex.
"Morena, what day is it to-day?"
"Why?"
"See, Morena, I mark each day on a stick; the dogs were born ten days ago."
"Well, it's the sixth."