Key dropped off the buck-rails, as the drivers shouted their “Aanhouws” to the cattle to give them a breather, kicked his legs loose a bit, dusted down his trousers quietly, and, smiling good-humouredly at Gowan, “guessed it was better business to hump that gripsack a mile or two than listen to old Yokeskey’s prayers.” That was his irreverent way of alluding to Gowan’s calling of transport-rider—a yokeskey being part of the trek gear. Key and I set out together at a brisk pace, well knowing how poor was our chance of catching up to the waggons again before the midnight outspan.
Key, who was always tickled by Gowan’s growling tones, remarked after we had walked for some minutes:
“Sling hell like a nigger parson, you know, can the old ’un, but soft and harmless as a woman.”
After half an hour’s brisk walking, we caught the unsteady flicker of a fire through the straggling thorns, and we found our friend sitting tailorwise before it, making vigorous but futile attempts to wisp aside the smoke that would go his way. His look of mild curiosity at the sound of our voices wakened up into welcome when he recognised us, and he at once became interested in the reason of our return.
“You haf lose something—not? I, too, will look for you,” he said, jumping up eagerly; but we reassured him on that point, and inquired in turn whether his “boy” had returned, and cross-questioned him as to the when and wherefore of his leaving.
The Kaffir-bearer, he said, had left him that morning during the after-breakfast trek.
“Ten hours gone, by Jimmie!” muttered the Judge.
“And you have waited here since then?” I asked.
“Oh yes, yes! I read to learn de English. It is—”
“Had any scoff?”