“Yes, Baas,” said Hans, collapsing on to the stoep.
I went out through the back door, sorrowing that I, Allan Quatermain, should have reached a rung in the ladder of life whence I shrank from looking any stranger in the face, for fear of what he might have to say to me. Then suddenly my pride asserted itself. After all what was there of which I should be ashamed? I would face these irate shareholders as I had faced the others yesterday.
I walked round the little house to the front garden which was planted with orange trees, and up to a big moonflower bush, I believe datura is its right name, that grew near the pomegranate hedge which separated my domain from the road. There a conversation was in progress, if so it may be called.
“Ikona” (that is: “I don’t know”), “Inkoosi” (i.e. “Chief”), said some Kafir in a stupid drawl.
Thereon a voice that instantly struck me as familiar, answered:
“We want to know where the great hunter lives.”
“Ikona,” said the Kafir.
“Can’t you remember his native name?” asked another voice which was also familiar to me, for I never forget voices though I am unable to place them at once.
“The great hunter, Here-come-a-zany,” said the first voice triumphantly, and instantly there flashed back upon my mind a vision of the splendid drawing-room at Ragnall Castle and of an imposing majordomo introducing into it two white-robed, Arab-looking men.
“Mr. Savage, by the Heavens!” I muttered. “What in the name of goodness is he doing here?”