“Not can do?” Jim said angrily, catching his drift. “What do you bring us here for, then?” He got out, followed by Wally.
“Short cut,” said the man, apologetically. “Can show market—through there.” He pointed to a door in the high board fence. “Me bad feet—gone too many trips.”
“He looks footsore enough,” Wally said, scanning the slouching form. “No good bothering about him, Jim—let’s pay him and clear out.”
Another Zulu had come out of the stable, in which he appeared to have slept with the mule. The first man shot a short, clicking sentence at him, pointing to his feet.
“Well, I don’t know what he expects, but that’s all he’s going to get,” Jim said, handing the sullen Zulu some money. “Now, where’s your market?” he added, sharply. “Hurry up!”
“Market close through here, sir,” the man answered, more respectfully than he had yet spoken. He led the way to the door in the fence, the boys at his heels, and stood aside for them to pass through.
“Why, it’s another yard——” Jim began, turning.
He had no time for more. The Zulu’s fist shot out and took him between the eyes, and he staggered through the doorway. At the same instant a violent blow on the back of the head sent Wally headlong on top of his friend. They went down in a heap together, unable to defend themselves. A shower of blows with heavy sticks beat them back as they struggled to rise. Jim tried to shout, but his voice died away helplessly; he flung out his hand, finding only Wally’s face, strangely wet. Then he lost consciousness.