They were slowly coming in towards the pier. On the left lay a grey warship, workmanlike and trim, with smoke coming lazily from her four funnels; they could catch glimpses of white-clad sailors on her deck. There were many ships lying at the long wharves. Ashore, the streets were bare and brown and dusty. It was Saturday afternoon, and there were few people about.
“It doesn’t look exciting,” Wally admitted. “Not much of King Solomon’s Mines about this outlook, anyhow. But you can’t judge any place by its wharves. These seem much like the Melbourne ones, only dirtier. You would think Melbourne was awful enough if you judged it by its ports.”
“It looks lovely back there,” Norah said, indicating a long semicircle of green hills that rose behind the dusty town.
“That’s the Berea, where all the lucky people of Durban live,” said the doctor, coming up. “You must take a trip round there. Going to stay ashore, Miss Norah?”
“Yes—Dad says so,” Norah answered. “The captain advised him—he says that it would be horrid to be on the ship here for two days.”
“And she coaling!” said the doctor, feelingly. “It’s horrible—dirty, noisy, and hot, and your cabin has to be always locked, because the Kaffir boys are everywhere, and they’d steal the clothes off your back or the pipe out of your mouth.”
“That’s what the captain said. So we’re going to a hotel.” Norah gave vent suddenly to a little jig of delight, principally executed on one foot.
“Why, what’s the matter?” the doctor asked.
“Look!” said Norah. “They’re Kaffirs, aren’t they? I haven’t seen any before.” She pointed to a group of men coming across the wharf yard—muscular, brown fellows, bare-footed, many of them stripped to the waist, and all chattering and laughing among themselves.
The doctor stared.