“Even a native policeman would arrest us at sight as rogues and vagabonds,” Wally said. “Can’t we clean up a bit?”
“Don’t know,” Jim answered. “Let’s see.”
There was no sign of any occupant in the dingy hovel across the yard. The boys peeped fruitlessly through a shuttered window, tried the door, and found it locked, and could find no trace of either the rickshaw which had brought them there or the mule they had seen in the first stable. It was evident that the Zulus, after securing their booty, had hastily decamped. Further search, however, revealed a tap, dripping in a corner. They drank from it thirstily, and bathed their heads and faces for some time, with the aid of fragments torn from their tattered silk shirts.
“You look as if you had once been respectable,” Wally remarked. “At least you would, but for your black eyes. I know I’m hopeless, so you needn’t bother to say anything!” He dabbed at his cheek, which washing had induced to bleed again.
“You’ve improved tremendously,” Jim said. “Cold water is certainly not much good for dirt of this degree of grubbiness, but we don’t look quite such banditti as we did. How do you feel?”
“Better—only top-heavy and stiff. How about you?”
“Oh, I’m much the same—with a champion head ache; about the first I ever had, I think!” Jim answered. “Do you feel up to walking?”
“I wouldn’t choose it for pleasure,” said Wally, his old smile sitting oddly on his white face. “But I can manage it all right. What shall we do?”
“I think the only thing is to get back to the hotel,” Jim answered. “I thought of going to the ship for fresh clothes, but all our keys are at the hotel. No policeman would listen to us for a moment, looking like this; we’ll be lucky if we don’t get run in by the first we meet. It’s an abominably long way for you, old man—sure you can manage it?”
“Rather!” Wally said, cheerily. “We’ll prop each other up. Come along.”