THE LION'S SKIN.
In the year 1898 Sergeant Johnson, the one with the bright red beard, was sent up country to establish and to remain in charge of the new out-station of Likonga. Likonga, a little-known spot in Central Africa, was, and still is, miles away from civilisation. Sergeant Johnson's command was cut to small dimensions by malaria at headquarters. He had but a corporal and two men. Likonga in those days consisted of nothing but a name on the map, and nothing at all in the way of buildings or anything else to show you when you had got there. The Commandant of Police had dotted vaguely the imperfect sketch map with his pencil, and had instructed Sergeant Johnson to go there. The Sergeant had glanced at the map as it lay on the office table, and had said, "Yes, sir."
"You will take with you Corporal Merton and Privates Hay and Hare. I cannot spare more."
Again the Sergeant said, "Yes, sir."
"You will take rations for ninety days, the small buck waggon, and the black span of oxen."
For the third time Sergeant Johnson said, "Yes, sir."
Now, this man with the bright red beard had been a soldier elsewhere before he became a policeman in the middle of Africa. His old training had not encouraged questions, so he never asked any now. When, therefore, the Commandant of Police glanced up from the map, the Sergeant saluted, turned about, and left the office.
He wasted no time. He took Corporal Merton, Privates Hay and Hare, the small waggon, ninety days' rations, a span of fourteen black oxen, the Zulu Jacob to drive, and the Kaffir boy "Nine-thirty" to lead.