“Probably he has, and he’s tired,” Wally answered. “Anyhow, he’s safe to know about the market.”
They hailed the Zulu, who did not, at first, seem inclined to stop. He regarded them with sleepy, unfriendly eyes, but without curiosity—though the tall, fresh-faced boys, in their light flannels and Panama hats, were sufficiently unfamiliar figures in that mean street in the early morning, before folk were awake. They repeated their question—in answer he grunted ill-temperedly and resumed his slow walk.
“Oh, bother!” said Jim. “I’d better give him something, and loosen his tongue.”
He drew out a loose handful of change and selected a small silver coin, holding it out to the Zulu. The man’s eyes lit up, and he stopped and backed to the footpath.
“We may as well take him, if he wants a fare,” Wally said. “It isn’t a luxurious-looking chariot, but it will do.”
“Market?” queried Jim. “You know the market?”
The Zulu looked vacantly at them for a moment.
“Gen’lemen want go to market?”
“Yes—native market; not white man’s,” Jim explained. “You know it?”
The man still hesitated.