“Yes,” he said at length. “You been there?”
“No,” said Jim, impatiently. “We want to go. Is it open on Sundays?”
“Yes,” said the Zulu, after a pause. “Take you?” He looked at them keenly.
“Yes—go ahead,” Jim said. They climbed into the rickshaw, and the Zulu jogged off.
He seemed to know his way readily enough. Up one poor street after another he trotted, his slow strides covering a great deal of ground. The locality grew more and more depressing: mean houses gave place to ramshackle cottages, many of them mere huts, separated by tumble-down fences, occasionally interspersed with grimy shops that were little more than stalls. Depressed-looking fowls scratched in the gutters, and mangy curs lay about every doorstep.
“Well, this is about as unpromising an approach to a market as one could imagine,” Jim remarked. “I’m glad we didn’t try to bring Norah—that kid hates smells.”
“Probably he’s taking us by short cuts,” Wally said; “he’s evidently tired, and this unsavoury rabbit-warren may lead out into the market-place. It can’t possibly be the usual approach; it’s too narrow, and there is no sign of much traffic.”
“I expect you’re right,” Jim answered. “Or else his happy home is in the locality, and he doesn’t mean to go past it. I’ll have a word to say to him, if he leaves us here.”
“You may, but it’s doubtful if he’ll understand you,” Wally grinned. “The conversation of these gentlemen is limited—though I fancy they understand a good deal more than one would think. Now, what’s his game?”
The rickshaw had swung round a corner, and into a yard, through an open gate. A closed house gave no sign of life; across the yard was a stable, and over the half-door a mule poked out a sleepy head. The Zulu put down the shafts and turned to the boys, saying something that was only half intelligible.