“Wildebeest,” I said, addressing the senior, “what do you think of the man we saw to-day?”
Wildebeest glanced uneasily over his shoulder into the darkness and replied in a low tone—
“I saw no man to-day, Bass; neither did Ghola, nor even the Bass himself.”
Both boys covered their heads with the fragments of skin which did duty for clothing and lay down. When I addressed them a few minutes afterwards both pretended to be fast asleep, but I could tell by their breathing that they were wide awake.
The sun was high when I reached the bitter wells next morning. My two companions had gone away exploring to the southward; they had left a note explaining that they would probably not return till the following day. This suited me exactly. I had never been able to lie skilfully; I hated having to deceive my chums. It may, therefore, be well imagined that I was somewhat uneasy on the subject of my secret.
After a short rest, I again set off westward, taking with me the spare knife. The sun was just setting when I reached the grove. The strange man was still in his “scherm.” A new piece of meat hung upon the forked stick; nothing else appeared to have been changed since the previous day. We sat up the whole night—he talking and I listening to what surely must have been one of the saddest and strangest tales ever poured into a human ear.
I passed my word to the effect that for twenty years, not alone would I never mention a word of what he told me, but that I would not even write it down. It will, accordingly, be understood that a good deal of the language in which the tale is set forth is rather mine than his. I have, however, a very vivid recollection of the circumstances related—in fact many of the phrases used have never faded from my memory.
After various experiments as to the best mode of relation I find that telling as though in the first person seems the most effective.