“Guess this is where we lend a hand,” said one, securing the wrists of the prisoner in a workmanlike grip. “That was just about as neat a hit as ever I seen. I’d like to know who taught you, young feller. Lie still now, will you?” and the Zulu subsided, muttering unpleasant things.
“Get hold of a policeman, will you?” said Jim. “Wally, you go.”
“Oh, he’s wanted, is he?” said the second soldier, sitting comfortably on the Zulu’s legs. “I thought you seemed to know him.”
“I ought to,” Jim answered. “He gave me this pair of black eyes yesterday.”
The soldier whistled.
“No wonder you was anxious for him,” he said. “Well, I guess you’ve paid him back—he won’t eat comfortable for a week.” Then Wally and two native policemen came back through the chattering throng, and Jim handed the prisoner over to the care of the law.
They made a procession to the police-station, the Zulu maintaining a sullen silence, while a crowd gathered and followed them. Jim’s rickshaw “boy,” who had evidently learned the whole story from the hotel, was a centre of attraction—he dragged his empty chariot behind Jim, loudly explaining the matter to those about him, and proclaiming his undoubted belief in Jim’s chieftainship. The hero of the moment nursed badly-bruised knuckles and looked as unhappy as his prisoner.
At the station matters were swiftly dealt with—law in Durban did not believe in detaining a party of white tourists over a native case. A white-haired old Scotchman, authoritative and kindly, put swift questions.
“Ye canna identify any of y’re property, I suppose?”
Jim grinned.