Nyagava was an East African who worked as a blacksmith on the estate. The Colonel knew from personal observation that he had not been out of the workshops since nine o'clock that morning.
"Tell Nyagava I want him," ordered Colonel Narfield.
But Blue Fly did not move. He was gazing steadfastly down the road.
"Dey come!" he shouted.
Sure enough the top of a white canvas tilt was appearing over the crest of the hill. Then came the leaders of a span of oxen tugging at the heavy, slow-moving vehicle.
"By Jove!" ejaculated the astonished Colonel.
"Your man was right, Colonel Narfield," said the old farmer quietly, as he lowered his binoculars. "There are three white men on the front of the wagon. I can't quite distinguish their faces, but perhaps you might."
He handed his companion the glasses. The Colonel adjusted the focus.
"By all that's wonderful!" he shouted. "It is Colin and Desmond."
Limping slightly, the Colonel went to meet the long-lost ones. Piet Van der Wyck, equally overjoyed, accompanied him, while crowding behind them were dozens and dozens of the Kilembonga employees yelling, dancing, and shouting themselves hoarse.