A native rose from the fire and disappeared in the direction of the tent, returning at once with the stranger's heavy rifle. Some word understood in the conversation had recalled an unfulfilled task. He took his place by the fire and, producing a bundle of bits of rag, Rangoon oil and a pull-through, sat cross-legged cleaning the gun.
'That's Johnny, my fundi,'[[1]] said Smith. 'Saved my life the other day. Didn't you, Johnny?'
The native, who did not understand a word, laughed and his teeth flashed white in the darkness.
[[1]] "Fundi"—native hunter.
'So,' went on Smith, whose conversation seemed to follow his thoughts rather than his words, 'we'll have to stick together and do long days to Abercorn and live on what I shoot. I've got ammunition waiting at Abercorn,' he added.
Dick saw that Norah's presence could no longer be concealed. He had no other excuse for rejecting the stranger's scheme. He wished he had been more open from the beginning. Confession was difficult now. In any case a complete explanation to this not very sympathetic stranger was unthinkable. He took the plunge.
'You see, there's my wife,' was his phrase.
The stranger looked at him as if he were going to speak. But when ultimately he did, it was only to say, 'You didn't tell me Mrs. Brown was with you.'
Dick saw that silence was his best defence, and held his tongue while Smith submerged into one of his periods of thought. Dick waited anxiously on the words of this rather mysterious being who held Norah's life and his in his hands. Eventually the arbiter of destinies spoke; more exactly, he whistled.
'We're in a bit of a hole,' he said.