At length, on a high ridge, Jacob halted and pointed dramatically to an outcrop—and copper it was, and a good deal of it. But under no stretch of the imagination could it be called a “mountain” of copper—in fact, in no single particular did it answer to the place described by Preuss.
No! we had been fooled again—though this time I felt our cicerone had been innocent of intent to deceive, and therefore could not be shot out of hand—indeed, he had shown us a very nice prospect! So after we had pegged the spot we sat down and gave him some tabaki, and I questioned him.
“Now, Jacob,” I said, “what sort of a man was this Herr Preuss?”
“Wit man,” he said, promptly.
“Yes, I know he was white, but what was he like? Tall? Short? Fair? Dark?—what?”
“Ja, Herr Kaptein.” (He always called me “Kaptein” when I gave him tabaki.)
“Was he a big, tall, fair man—like Baas Ransson?”
“Ja, Herr Kaptein.” (Ransson’s about 5 feet, and has the complexion of a sunburnt Zulu.)
“Lot of hair—big beard like me, eh?”
“Ja, Herr Kaptein.” (I’m bald—no beard.)