Hume Wheler and Joe Granton had come in with the wagon. Lane had ridden forward forty-eight hours since with a Bushman picked up at the last water, with the object of finding a desert fountain far distant in the wilderness, where the next supply of water was to be obtained. Upon the strength of this fountain hinged the safety of the expedition in the last trek of nearly a week—waterless except for this supply—before Tapinyani’s kraal should be reached.
After a poor supper of tough, tinned “bully beef”—they had had no time to shoot game—and a mere sip at the poisonous and well-nigh undrinkable coffee, brewed from the foul water of the pool, Hume Wheler lay by the fire smoking in moody contemplation. The day had been desperately hot, and the work very hard, and even now, as night with her train of stars stepped forth upon the heaven, the air was close and still. Joe Granton had climbed up to the wagon for more tobacco. His cheerful nature was little downcast, even by the trials and worries of the past days; and now, as he filled his pipe, some pleasant remembrance passed through his brain, and in a mellow voice he sang:—
“How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing,
And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell;
Then soon with the emblem of truth overflowing,
And dripping with coolness it rose from the well.
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket that hangs in the well.”
As the notes died slowly away upon the still air, Wheler looked up from the fire, and said in a sharp voice, “What in God’s name, Joe, possesses you to sing about moss-grown wells and cool English water, and that sort of thing? It’s bad enough to be enduring the tortures of the damned in this cursed desert, with a thirst on one big enough to drain Windermere, without being reminded of such things. Don’t, old man; don’t!”
“All right, old chap,” cheerily answered Granton. “I’ll drop the ‘Moss-covered Bucket’ and its unpleasant suggestions. I’ll get out my banjo and come down.” Extricating the banjo, he descended, and sat at his friend’s side. They sat smoking by the firelight, exchanging but few words, while Joe twanged softly at his strings.
In half an hour Stephan, the Hottentot driver, came over from the other fire, where the native servants sat.
“I tink, Sieur,” he said, “that Baas Lane will soon be here. I hear something just now.”
Surely enough, in three minutes Tom Lane’s whistle was heard, and, directly after, a Bushman walking by his side, he rode his nearly foundered horse into the strong firelight.
After exchanging greetings, he directed a boy to give the horse some water. “He’s about cooked, poor beast,” he said. “I don’t think he’d have stood up another six hours. Got any coffee?”
They handed him a beakerful. He drank it down with a wry face.