Jack Fernie and William Black became partners in the usually pleasant
business of seeing something of the world.
What the two men had in common was little enough so far as I could
discover. They appeared to meet on the common ground of boots--uncommon
boots.
Fernie hated wet feet. He argued that if water got in over the top of
the boot, the foot remained damp all day, which was bad for you. So he
punched holes through the leather of the uppers, all round, just where
it bends in to meet the soles. He explained that since water must find
its own level, it will run out of your boots as readily as it will run
in, if given a fair chance.
Black went in constant dread of developing an ingrowing toenail, so he
wore boots with two compartments inside, one for the big toe and the
other for the rest. They were very ugly, clumsy boots, but Black
declared that they were a sure preventive and very comfortable.
These two strange creatures were never tired of discussing each other's
boots.
Now Fernie had been second officer on board a liner. On the way home
from India he had said unrepeatable things to a parson. When he arrived
in London his directors sent for him, scolded him severely, and
dismissed him from their service.
When I got to know Fernie well, I asked him what all the trouble had
been about. He was not very communicative; he merely said that he could
no more abide a black coat than he could a black cat. With that he
changed the subject, and I had to be content.
Black had slaved as a clerk in the City for thirty-five years and
doubtless would have remained one for the rest of his natural life had
not an old lady, no relation of his, left him in her will a sum of money
which provided him with an income of between six and seven hundred a
year. There was no mention of the why and the wherefore in the will, and
Black declared that he couldn't imagine why she did him this good turn.
It appears that Fernie and Black first met in Bulawayo. How, exactly, I
don't know. They had bought a donkey-waggon and set out for the Zambesi
river, which they crossed at a place called Kazungula, some forty-five
miles above the Victoria Falls.
Their introduction to me was a curious one. Fernie walked into my camp
one day, followed by Black. He said: "Are you the magistrate of these
parts?"
"Yes."
"Well, will you sell us up?"
"What do you mean?"
"You see, we're partners, Black and I. We don't get on as such and want
to dissolve. Isn't that so, Black?"
"Yes."
"So we want you to sell us up; sell our outfit as it stands--waggon,
donkeys, and everything else we've got. Don't we, Black?"
"Yes."
"But," I said, "who do you expect to buy in a place like this? There
isn't a white man within a couple of hundred miles. I'm not buying
donkeys, and the natives can't."
"That's all right," said Fernie. "I will do all the bidding, and you can
divide the proceeds between us."
"Yes," said Black, "that's what we want you to do."
Of course, I agreed to help and asked them to set out the things for
sale.
When everything was ready, Black handed to me a list, neatly written and
ruled with two money columns, one headed "Cost Price" and the other
"Sale Price."
I had never acted as auctioneer before, but that didn't matter; entering
into the spirit of the thing, I began.
"Gentlemen, I have here as fine a span of donkeys and as sound a waggon
as ever came north of the Zambesi----"