There were five intent faces upturned at Barberton as he stopped. The rosy glow of the fire lighted them up, and the man nearest me—the millionaire—whispered to himself, “Good God! how awful!”
“Well, who was he? Did you—” began the man who wrote for the papers.
Barberton looked steadily at him, and with measured deliberation said:
“We never knew another word about him. From that day to this nothing has ever been heard to throw the least light on him or what he said.”
Far away in the stillness of the African night we heard the impatient half-grunt, half-groan of the lion. Near by there was a cricket chirping; and presently a couple of the logs settled down with a small crunch, and a fresh tongue of flame leaped up. Barberton pumped a straw up and down the stem of the faithful briar, and remarked sententiously:
“Yah, it’s a rum old world, this of ours! I’ve seen civilisation take its revenge that way quite a lot of times—just like a woman!”
No one else said a word. Now and then a snore came from under the waggon where the drivers were sleeping.
The dog beside me gave some abortive whimpers, and his feet twitched convulsively—no doubt he was hunting in dreamland. I felt depressed by Barberton’s yarn.