“We may as well go,” said Mr. Linton, laughing. The gangway was down; already a swarm of Kaffir boys were coming on deck, unsavoury enough at close quarters to cure even Norah of undue hankerings after this particular brand of noble savage. Their bare feet left tracks of coal-dust on the spotless decks, at which the doctor shrugged disgustedly.
“Poor old ship—she’ll be coal from end to end soon,” he observed. “Are all your cabins locked, by the way?”
“Yes—we handed them over to the steward’s care,” Mr. Linton answered. “Suit-cases all on deck, boys?”
Everything was ready, and in a few moments was delivered to the hotel agent, a busy half-caste who came on board suffused with his own importance. Then, with no heavier impedimenta than cameras, the Billabong party went ashore—to be received with a delighted air of welcome by the rickshaw “boys.” Mr. Linton and Norah boarded one rickshaw, Jim and Wally the other; the steeds gripped the shafts, said authoritatively, “Sit ba-a-a-ck!” and started on the long jog to the city, the little brass bells on their wrists jingling at each stride.
The rickshaw of Durban is an enticing vehicle. It holds two people comfortably: it is well-cushioned, with an adjustable hood, and has rubber tyres; and both it and its “boy” are as clean as polishing can make them. The “boy’s” bare feet are almost soundless on the well-paved roads; the rickshaw runs smoothly, with no apparent effort on the part of the big Zulu. He is a cheerful soul, with a keen eye to the main chance; his smile is always ready, and he passes other “boys” with a quick volley of chaff that appears to give equal delight to both. Very certainly he will demand double or treble fare if he thinks there is the slightest chance of obtaining more than his due. He loves to appear quite ignorant of English, once he has caught his passenger, and will jog on serenely into space, oblivious of any command to stop, knowing that he is piling up the sum to be paid him eventually. For these reasons, it is as well to learn from the steward a few elementary native words of command, which are apt to imbue the “boy” with a painful regard for his fare’s might and learning. Failing this, a stick or umbrella long enough to prod him is of much value.
With all these small drawbacks, the rickshaw “boy” is a delightful person, combining the heart of a child with the business instincts of a financier. Even when there is strong reason to suspect that he has grossly overcharged you, it is quite impossible to be angry with him, his smile is so friendly and his manner so insinuating. The effect might be less marked if he were not so extremely ornamental. But a chocolate-coloured, highly-polished Hercules, clad in shining raiment, jingling with brazen ornaments, and crowned by a head-dress calculated to excite envy in the Queen of Sheba, claims affection in a fashion denied to lesser mortals.
Norah found her red and white-clad steed wholly delightful. She gave to his great back, with its flowing monkey-skin, more attention than to the dusty streets through which they were passing, though they, too, were not without their special interests—groups of natives, Kaffir women with their brown babies tucked into the corner of their bright shawls, little native boys with the splendid uprightness that comes from many generations who have carried loads on their heads, Indians in gaudy, flowing draperies, and slouching half-castes, with evil, crafty faces. Other rickshaws passed them, taking passengers back to ships at the Point, or jogging down, empty, in the hope of picking up a fare. There were long teams of mules, in Government ammunition carts; and in a railway yard they caught sight of a train painted with the Red Cross, and suddenly remembered that South Africa, too, was at war. Women were sitting in the dust by the roadside, with great baskets of fruit—the travellers from the land of fruit sniffed disdainfully at its quality; and there were hawkers of cool drinks and ice-cream, which appeared to be of a peculiarly poisonous nature. Then the unsavoury streets widened to a fine road on the sea-front—and they ran past imposing hotels and clubs, which looked out on a fleet of small yachts, lying at anchor or lazily sailing before the light breeze; and then came a sharp turn into a broad street, past a square where statues were surrounded by beds of flowers that blazed in the afternoon sun, and a great building, the beautiful Town Hall, shone on the further side; and the “boys” dropped the shafts in front of the Post Office and grinned by way of explaining that this was the heart of Durban town.
“I’d give half my kingdom,” said Wally, as they met on the footpath, “if I could import that turn-out to Melbourne and drive down Collins Street on a Saturday morning. Just fancy that gorgeous black chap—and the look on the Melbourne policeman’s face as he caught sight of him!”
“Just fancy the horses!” said Jim, laughing. “Wouldn’t there be an interesting stampede!”
“Look at them now!” said Norah delightedly. A long row of rickshaws stood on the other side of the street, waiting to be hired, their “boys” chattering in little groups or brushing their miniature carriages with feather dusters. A man approached them, bearing the unmistakable tourist stamp, and immediately every “boy” sprang to attention—patting the rickshaw seat, whistling softly, yet urgently, waving their bright dusters, while some, between the shafts, pranced wildly, apparently overcome by the sheer joy of being alive. There was a storm of guttural pleading. “Take me, sar!” “No, me—he no good!” “Me is fast boy, sar!” “Me is faster!” The great bronze faces were vivid with excited impatience; white teeth flashed, and rainbow plumes nodded.