'Abercorn,' was the monosyllabic reply.
The announcement was not to Dick's taste. In the first place he did not like his plans made for him. Moreover, in his sanguine heart he had reckoned on a loan of at least enough provisions to carry Norah and himself to the nearest white settlement.
But now the man Smith was proposing—almost dictating—a double back into Rhodesia and an amalgamation of forces that would discover Norah's presence. And, as there were people at Abercorn who knew both her and Archie, he would have to tell the truth.
A shade stiffly then (it would never occur to Dick that Smith was in a position to offer whatever arrangement suited him) he replied that he didn't think he could manage to make for Abercorn, adducing as an excuse the state of his feet, which had suffered from the stony and precipitous route he had that day followed.
Smith heard him out without any expression on his face that would reveal his opinion. 'Matao,' he said to his capitao, 'the fire.' He seemed to collapse into his thoughts.
A native, naked save for his blanket, extracted his sprawling limbs from the fire-lit group that talked in sibilant whispers only broken by suppressed laughter at some scandalous tale. From the firewood pile he pulled the pale trunk of a tree long dead, eaten to a skeleton by white ants, and pitched it on to the fire. The impact released a shower of sparks and a flicker of flames that lit the underside of the overhanging boughs, showing their leaves livid against the richness of the sky, like the pattern on a brocade.
That's right, Matao,' said Smith, and relapsed into silence. Then, with the tone of one who had been reasoning all the time—'You see,' he said to Dick, 'you see, I haven't anything I can leave you. I haven't any tins myself or meal for my carriers. So I can't give you any.'
Dick, to whom salvation had seemed assured, felt as if he had been pushed off a cliff. 'We're living on what I shoot,' went on Smith after a pause; 'unfortunately I'm short of ammunition. Bloody short. What guns have you got?'
'Seven point nine Mauser and a heavy Westley Richards,' replied Dick dully.
'So, even if I could spare you any, it wouldn't fit.' Smith seemed to muse. 'I've got a 7.9 at home,' he continued. 'I might have a round or two in my bag. But not enough to be any use.'