One day Malcolm McFee was sitting in front of the little sheet-iron house in which he and his father lived off in the interior of one of the British Colonies in South Africa, when he saw the latter coming rapidly towards him with his arms swinging. Mr. McFee was a small wiry man, all thews and sinews. He had never abused himself in any way, and he could strike a trot and hold it open-mouthed all day like a dog. He was loping along through the dust, and Malcolm saw that he was evidently laboring under some excitement. Now his father was never despondent or cast down, but he was sometimes more enthusiastic than at others, that was all, and never had the boy seen his father so wrought up as at this very moment. He entered the house and closed the door behind him. Then, not even breathing hard from his running, he put both hands on Malcolm's shoulders, and exclaimed, "Laddie, laddie, but we are going to strike it rich!"
Now Malcolm had heard this before, so he waited for further developments. But the strange tale that was told him succeeded at last in arousing even his calmer nature.
A year previously the British government had conducted a campaign way to the northwest of the South African Dutch republic. They had humbled the little black native King and made him pay tribute, but the loot and treasure that they expected to find (for he had been reputed to be wealthy) were not forth-coming. This is the key to this story, and there is no use of going into the details of the conversation between Malcolm and his father. It is what they did that is interesting—and what took place afterwards.
That night an Englishman named Gifford, a tall, gaunt, fanatical-looking being, entered their hut. He was accompanied by a gray-headed, wizened negro, whose ribs and joints showed plainly beneath his shrivelled, dusty skin. A rather remarkable council was held—the Englishman translating as the negro talked.
"He says he knows exactly the place," Gifford said. "He saw them burying it, and after they had walked away from the spot old Obani had every one of the men who digged for him killed—heads chopped off, you know. That's the reason Tommy Atkins didn't find anything up there, eh? Listen, man! We can get it—gold and sparklers! old Grumpah here says—handfuls of them. Are you game, man, to try it? I tell you frankly why I come to you," Gifford continued. "I know you can be trusted, and we will need some money for the outfit. I say, old Juggins, come, are you with me?"
"How did you get such a hold over the old boy?" asked Mr. McFee, nodding towards the squatting black figure.
"That's a short story," answered the Englishman, laughing. "I have had my eye on him for a long time. He let something slip once, and I tell you, man, I worked with my hands to keep that old nig in idleness—for three years I've worked for him. I arranged it so that he thinks I saved his life, too; and that was easy. And now the point—will you join me?"
This question was superfluous, as any one who had known Malcolm's father would have testified.
Three weeks later two large ox-carts, with four blacks to drive them, and three white men—at least two white men and a boy—were treaking across the flat plains, equipped apparently for a hunting excursion into the game-abounding country where beasts with strange horns and names are found in plenty, and where the lion's roar often breaks the stillness of the night.
Privation and hardship, death and disease they faced, and at last, a month later, with only one wagon left, and the loss of one of the negro drivers (by drowning at a river ford) they arrived at the great fertile border-land that edges the deep forest of the outermost possessions of King Obani, chief of the Bangwalis. Here they rested for a week, regaining strength, for they had made the trip in the unhealthy season of the year. They had traded their way peaceably, so far, with what natives they had met, and had encountered no hostile resistance. But the hardest work was yet to come.