“If you smoke Boer tobacco,” said the stranger, “I can help you,” and I noted that the voice was as pleasant as the face, and knew at once that the owner of it was a gentleman.
“Thank you, Sir. I never smoke anything else,” I answered, whereon he produced from his trousers pocket a pouch made of lion skin of unusually dark colour.
“I never saw a lion as black as this, except once beyond Buluwayo on the borders of Lobengula’s country,” I said by way of making conversation.
“Curious,” answered the stranger, “for that’s where I shot the brute a few months ago. I tried to keep the whole skin but the white ants got at it.”
“Been trading up there?” I asked.
“Nothing so useful,” he said. “Just idling and shooting. Came to this country because it was one of the very few I had never seen, and have only been here a year. I think I have had about enough of it, though. Can you tell me of any boats running from Durban to India? I should like to see those wild sheep in Kashmir.”
I told him that I did not know for certain as I had never taken any interest in India, being an African elephant-hunter and trader, but I thought they did occasionally. Just then Robinson passed by and called to me—
“They’ll be here presently, Quatermain, but Sompseu isn’t coming himself.”
“Does your name happen to be Allan Quatermain?” asked the stranger. “If so I have heard plenty about you up in Lobengula’s country, and of your wonderful shooting.”
“Yes,” I replied, “but as for the shooting, natives always exaggerate.”