One morning Tom was awakened by his faithful attendant to resume his weary journey. He got up with a heavy sigh, and almost fell down again from weakness.
“I think, Mafuta,” said Tom gravely, “that I’m pretty nearly used up. You’ll have to leave me, I fear, and make the best of your way out of this wretched country alone.”
“Dis a fuss-rate kontry,” said the Caffre quietly.
“Ah, true, Mafuta, I forgot for a moment that it is your native land. However, I am bound to admit that it is a first-rate country for sport—also for killing Englishmen. I don’t feel able to move a step.”
Tom sat down as he said this, and, uttering a sort of groan, leaned his back against a tree.
“W’at, yous no’ go fadder?”
“No,” said Tom, with some asperity, for he felt too much exhausted to speak.
“Berry good, me say good-bye.”
Mafuta nodded his head as he spoke, and, gravely shouldering his load, marched away.
Tom looked after him with a melancholy smile; for he quite understood the ruse by this time, and knew that he would return, although the simple native sincerely believed that his motives and intentions had been concealed with deep wisdom. Tom was not sorry to get a respite, and threw himself flat down, in order to make the most of it, but Mafuta was more anxious than usual about his companion that morning. He returned in ten minutes or so, having sat for that period behind a neighbouring tree to brood over his circumstances.