They went out into the street. A few brown children were playing in the dust, and looked at them curiously, and some loutish Kaffir boys of fifteen or sixteen jeered at them from a verandah; but the houses were all shut, to keep out the heat, and they encountered very few passers-by—all natives, who showed little curiosity. The sun blazed fiercely on their bare heads; there was no shade in the street, and already they were again painfully thirsty. Wally staggered frequently from weakness, and was glad of Jim’s arm—though he put so little weight upon it that Jim abused him roundly. They made their painful way back towards the city.
“I’d be almost glad to meet a policeman,” Jim said, at last. “We’ll never walk all that way; you’re done now, old chap.”
“Not me!” Wally gasped. “Come on.”
They turned into a wider thoroughfare. It was nearing noon; Durban was waking up. Along the street, on his way to the principal square of the city, came trotting a very smart rickshaw boy—a vision of scarlet and white, and nodding plumes and towering bullock-horns. Jim looked at him hungrily.
“There’s the very fellow we had yesterday,” he said. “I suppose he’d howl if we tried to stop him.”
He gave an involuntary hail, and the Zulu, amazed at the crisp tone of command, stopped dead, looking at them doubtfully.
“What you want?” he said.
“Your rickshaw,” Jim answered. “Hotel King George.” He dragged Wally forward.
The Zulu grinned widely.
“Not much!” he said. “Got money?”