“Good day. Who are you?”
“One who will never trouble you as much as you trouble him,” came the surly reply.
The voice had an even, metallic tone—a tone which I was strangely reminded of years afterwards when I first listened to a phonograph. There was a queer suggestion of impersonality about it. I tried to think of something to say, but could not find a word, so taken aback was I. The man’s eyes rested on mine like those of an animated sphinx, and seemed to exercise a queer kind of mesmerism. Withdrawing mine with difficulty, I glanced around the “scherm” and took a rapid survey of its contents. I noticed a number of sticks, pared flat, and with the edges full of little notches. A Bushman’s bow and a quiver of arrows were stuck behind one of the supports, and a skin wallet hung from another. Several curiously knobbed sticks lay on the floor, and a lump of raw meat, which was in course of being invaded by an army of small red ants, was stuck in the fork of a stake planted in the ground. Several ostrich egg-shells, with small wooden pegs inserted at each end, lay about.
The silence became oppressive. The man still gazed at me, and I glanced nervously and rapidly at him from time to time. The thought that he perhaps was a lunatic crossed my mind, and I quickly surveyed his build in view of the possibility of a struggle. The conclusion I came to was that I should prefer to decline a contest. The man was old and rather emaciated, but his muscles looked as hard as the pasterns of a springbok.
“Is there much game hereabouts?” I hazarded.
The strange being suddenly stood up, and I was astonished at his height. I involuntarily stepped back a couple of paces as he emerged from the “scherm.” He stretched forth his hand towards me, but not in a threatening manner—although his eyes seemed to blaze—and spoke in the same strange pitch, but much more loudly than before.
“Is not the desert wide enough that you come here to trouble me? You have the whole world for your hunting-ground, and I have only this little spot. Get you gone and trouble me no more, or I will get the Bushmen to drive you off.”
I began to lose my nervousness completely—although I could not help seeing that the man’s threat was a serious one. Bushmen had not been giving much trouble of late years; however, I knew that they existed in considerable numbers in that particular area of the Great Desert. Probably this strange being possessed some influence over them, and if so, nothing would be more easy than to have us killed when sitting around our camp-fire by means of a volley of poisoned arrows poured in at point-blank range. Such occurrences had happened before.
“Man alive,” I said in a cheerful voice, “I don’t want to interfere with you; I came here quite by accident, and I shall go on my way without giving you any trouble whatever. Ta-ta—I hope you are enjoying your picnic.”
I turned on my heel, but he called out to me to stop, and I again faced round.