“At the hotel—not here.”
Something was puzzling the rickshaw “boy.” He looked questioningly from one to another of the white-faced lads. They were scarecrows—but he knew enough of the tourists he dragged round Durban to be certain that these belonged to the race that employed him. Jim’s disfigured face was full of authority. Wally, beyond any mere speech, leaned against the rickshaw, gripping the rail.
“You been hurt?” the “boy” ventured.
Jim explained curtly. There had been a fight, they had been robbed. They must get to the Hotel King George for clothes and money; moreover, this rickshaw must take them. “We had you yesterday,” Jim finished. “From the Point.”
Light suddenly flashed into the Zulu’s eyes.
“Blue Funnel ship?” he exclaimed.
Jim nodded. “Four of us. Will you take us? We’ll give you five shillings.”
The Zulu nodded so alarmingly that it seemed certain that his head-dress would fall off.
“Me take you,” he said. “Get in.” He came to help to get Wally into the seat. Jim climbed in thankfully.
“Go by back streets,” he commanded.