"I did!" exclaimed Tiny.
"Yes, a fellow called Piet Van der Wyck," replied the owner of that name gravely.
"By Jove!" ejaculated Colin excitedly. "And what was the place like? How did you manage to get there?"
"Sort of accident," explained Van der Wyck. "You know what a swastika is? Well, years ago, when I was about eighteen or nineteen, I went with a friend, Cornelius Hoog, to Jo'burg for a holiday. Amongst other irresponsible things we did we went to a tattooist's, and the man tattooed a swastika on my arm. Here it is as plain as the day it was done. In '16 I was with Deventer's column operating in the region of Tabora. There I happened to do what you English call a 'good turn' to an induna, or chief. It was quite a trivial thing as far as I was concerned, and at the time I thought nothing of it.
"As a matter of fact, I didn't know the fellow was an induna. Three days later I was out on patrol and we got into a nasty corner—six of us cut off by a couple of hundred Askaris. They got me just as I was getting into my saddle—a soft-nosed bullet through the ankle. What happened after that I have no recollection. None of my comrades returned. Their bodies were found the next day. Read this."
Van der Wyck produced a pocket-book filled with folded papers, many of them torn and faded. Holding the pocket-book in the rays of an electric lamp, for darkness had now fallen over the surface of the tranquil sea, he drew out a scrap of newspaper. On it was printed the names of five men killed in action; below were the words: "Missing, believed killed: P. v. d. Wyck."
"When I recovered consciousness I found myself lying in a kloof. I suppose I had somehow got into the saddle, and my horse had got through and galloped miles. To this day I do not know how I contrived to get away. But I was in a bad state—my ankle pulverised and my horse gone.
"There I lay for three days and three nights, tormented by the sun by day and scared by prowling animals by night. Several times I lost consciousness, and once an assvogal—you'd call it a vulture—sat on my chest and began pecking at my eyes.
"At last I was found by a party of Makoh'lengas. One of them was the induna I had befriended. They were going to carry me back to the laager. If they had I should have doubtless died on the way, for our detachment had moved eighty miles to the south-east.
"Then the induna—Umkomasi was his name—noticed the swastika tattooed on my arm. That was a sort of passport, for the Makoh'lenga have a very similar symbol that is supposed to possess magical properties. In my case it qualified me for admission into the Secret City of Makoh'lenga. I was there eleven weeks. They couldn't save my foot; but they prevented me from having bloodpoisoning and pulled me through a bout of black-water fever. You see, I can speak Zulu, and the Makoh'lenga tongue is a sort of Zulu dialect."