"WHERE'S DOPPERSDORP?"
"Now where the very mischief _is_ Doppersdorp?"
He who thus uttered his thoughts aloud looked up from the sheet of paper
in his hand, and gazed forth over the blue waters of Algoa Bay. Over
the vessels riding at their anchorage his gaze wandered, over the
stately hulls of two or three large mail steamships similar to that upon
whose deck he then stood; over the tall, tapering masts and web-like
rigging of numerous sailing craft; over the flotilla of cargo-boats and
lighters; over the low, sandy shores and sunbaked buildings of busy,
dusty Port Elizabeth, right away to the bold ridges of the Winterhoek
range looming black and hazy to the blue heavens; then returned to
re-peruse the large official communication. Thus it began:--
Sir,--I have the honour to inform you that His Excellency the Governor,
with the advice of the Executive Council, has been pleased to appoint
you to be--provisionally--clerk to the Resident Magistrate of
Doppersdorp, and distributer of stamps... Then followed particulars as
to salary, and, with the request that the recipient would be good enough
to proceed to that place as soon as possible, somebody whose name he
could not quite decipher, but whose style was "Acting Under Colonial
Secretary," had the honour to be his obedient servant.
The letter was dated from the Colonial Secretary's Office, and was
directed to "Roden Musgrave, Esq."
"The pay is not profuse," soliloquised the fortunate recipient of this
missive, "especially to make a fresh start upon at my time of life.
Well, the old saw about beggars and choosers holds good, but--where the
very deuce _is_ Doppersdorp?"
"Hallo, Musgrave! Had ten thousand a year left you?" cried a jolly,
hail-the-maintop sort of voice behind him.
Its owner was a powerfully built man of middle age, whose handsome face,
bronzed and bearded, was lit up by a pair of keen brown eyes with a
merry twinkle in them which was more than half satirical. He was clad
in a dark blue, gold-laced, quasi-naval uniform.
"You know something about this country, eh, skipper?" said the other,
turning away from the taffrail, over which he had been leaning.
"I ought to by now, considering the number of years I've had to do with
it," was the confident reply.
"So? Well, I'll bet you a bottle of Heidsieck you don't answer the
first question I put to you concerning it. But whether I win or lose
it'll be our parting drink together."
"Our parting drink? Man alive, what sort of humbug are you talking?
Aren't we going on as far as Natal together, and haven't we only just
begun our unlading? That means two days more here, if not three. Then
we are sure to be kept a couple of days at East London. So this day
week we can talk about our parting drink, not to-day."
"Never mind that for a moment. Is that bet on?"
"All right--yes. Now then, what's the question?"
"Where is Doppersdorp?"
"Eh?"
"To be more explicit--what section of this flourishing colony is
distinguished by the proud possession of the town or village of
Doppersdorp?"
"I'll be hanged if I know."
"I thought not. Skipper, you've lost; so order up the Monopole, while I
dive down and roll up my traps, for to that unpromising township, of so
far nebulous locality, I am officially directed to proceed without loss
of time."
"The dickens you are! That's a nuisance, Musgrave; especially as all
the other fellows are leaving us here. I thought you were going on to
Natal with us."
"So did I. But nothing is certain in this world, let alone the plans of
such a knock-about as yours truly. Well, we've done more than our share
of lie-splitting during the last three weeks, Cheyne, and it'll be for
your moral good now to absorb some of the improving conversation of that
elderly party who is dying to come down to your end of the table; also
of Larkins, who can succeed to my chair."
"Oh, Larkins!" grunted the other contemptuously. "Every voyage the
saloon has its percentage of fools, but Larkins undoubtedly is the prize
fool of the lot. Now, if there's one thing more than another I cannot
stand, it's a fool."
The commander of the _Siberian_ was not exactly a popular captain, a
fact perhaps readily accounted for by the prejudice we have just heard
him enunciate; yet he was more feared than disliked, for he was
possessed of a shrewd insight into character, and a keen and biting wit,
and those who came under its lash were not moved thereby precisely to
love its owner. But, withal, he was a genial and sociable man, ever
willing to promote and assist in the diversions of his passengers, as to
sports, theatricals, concerts, and the like; so, although a trifle
merciless towards those, and they were not few, whose ambition in life
seemed to consist in asking questions and making remarks of a stark
idiotic nature, he got on very well with his passengers on the whole.
Moreover, he was an excellent sailor, and, without being a martinet, was
a strict disciplinarian; consequently, in consideration of the comfort,
and shipshape readiness of the ordering of things on board the
_Siberian_, passengers who were capable of appreciation could forgive a
little sarcasm at the hands of her commander.
Those whom Captain Cheyne liked invariably returned the predilection,
those whom he disliked were sure not to remain unaware of the fact. And
out of a full complement of first-class passengers this voyage, the one
to whom he had taken most was Roden Musgrave; perhaps because of the
quality they held in common, a chronic cynicism and a rooted contempt
for the weaker-minded of their fellows--i.e., the bulk of human kind.
Anyhow, they would sit and exchange aphorisms and anecdotes illustrative
of this, until one of the other two or three passengers who almost
nightly participated in that snug and convivial gathering, was wont to
declare that it was like the sharpening of saws steeped in vinegar, to
sit and listen to Musgrave and the skipper in the latter's cabin an hour
or so before turning in.
"But if you don't know where this place is, how the deuce do you know
you've got to go ashore here, eh?" pursued the captain.
"Ha, ha! Because I don't want to, of course. Fancy you asking such a
question!"
"It may be nearer to go on to East London and land there. Here, I say,
Walker," he broke off, hailing an individual who, laden with bags and
bundles, was superintending the heaving of his heavier luggage into a
boat alongside; "where on earth is Doppersdorp?"
"Ha! There you are, are you captain? I was hunting for you everywhere
to say good-bye. Doppersdorp? Doppersdorp? No, hang me if I do know!
Sounds like some good old Dutch place, buried away up in the Karroo most
likely. Well, ta-ta. Excuse my hurry, but I shall barely catch the
Uitenhage train." And he made for the gangway again.
"That looks bad," said Musgrave. "A place nobody seems so much as to
have heard of is likely to be a hole indeed."
"What are you going there for, if it's not an impertinent question?"
said the captain.
"Got a Government billet."
"Well, come along to my crib and we'll settle that bet. I've got a map
or two that may give the place."
Not without a qualm did Musgrave find himself for the last time within
that snug berth where he had spent so many festive evenings, whether it
was when the rain and spray was lashing the closed scuttles while the
vessel was rolling under half steam against the tempestuous Biscayan
surges, or with door and windows alike thrown wide open as she glided
through the oily stillness and moist heat of tropical waters. In his
heart of hearts he was perhaps a little sorry that the voyage was over.
Most of the passengers had left the ship at Capetown, and the remainder
on dropping anchor in Algoa Bay early that morning, with the exception
of half a dozen or so, bound for the other coast ports, among whom until
a few minutes ago he had reckoned himself.
"Here's the place," said the captain after a brief scrutiny of the map
he had just unrolled; "I thought as much. Stuck away in the middle of
the Karroo. Yes, you'd better land here after all. You can get at it
easier from here, but it will mean about two days or more of post-cart
travelling after you leave the train. Well, I wonder when we shall meet
again! Perhaps we'll take the run home together one of these days."
The other shrugged his shoulders.
"Probably that event will never come off," he said. "The magnificent
start I'm making doesn't seem to hold out large margin for saving up a
fortune against ripe old age. So here goes for assisting to represent
the Colonial Government among the Boers and the boundless Karroo."
"Hold on, though. You needn't be in such an all-fired hurry to start
off there," said the captain. "I'm going ashore myself this afternoon,
and there's plenty of room for your luggage in my gig. Then we might
dine at the Phoenix, and start you off all snug and comfortable by the
night train. There's the second lunch bell going now. Come along down,
and we'll get outside that bottle of Heidsieck, for I own I fairly lost
the bet."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Roden Musgrave was neither young nor old, but just touching middle age;
a vague term, however, and variable, according to the inclination of
whoever may define it. He was a clean-built, well-set-up man, whose
dark hair was just beginning to be tipped here and there with frost.
His face was clean shaven, save for the moustache which helped to hide a
firm, though somewhat melancholy, mouth. He had good, clear-cut
features and rather deep-set grey eyes, in which there was something
which seemed to tell that he had known strange experiences; an
impression which was heightened by a curious, indented double scar on
the left side of the chin, and which, standing out livid from a
complexion sun-tanned almost to swarthiness, gave an expression at times
bordering on the sinister. Somehow, too, the face was not that of a man
whose record is open to all comers. There was a schooled and guarded
look upon it, which seemed to show plainly enough to the close observer
that it was not the face its owner had started with in life. But what
such record might be the curious could only guess, for this man was the
closest of mortals. On the topic dearest to the heart of most of us--
self to wit--he never talked, and after weeks of the unguarded
companionship of life at sea, during which people are apt to wax
confidential--a great deal too much so--not one of his fellow-passengers
knew a jot more about him than when he first stepped on board; that is
to say nothing.
"Who the devil is that fellow Musgrave?" queried the smoke-room.
"Oh, some card-sharper, most likely," would reply a Kimberley-bound Jew,
disgusted in that he had met with more than his match. But this of
course was no more than conjecture, and a satisfactory answer was not to
be had.
"Now who can that Mr Musgrave be?" was the more soft-toned
interrogative of the saloon. "Surely you must know, Captain Cheyne.
What is he going out for?"
To which the captain would reply, with a laugh of cynical delight, that
he knew no more than they did, but that the readiest way of solving the
difficulty would be to apply to Musgrave himself, drawing down from the
discomfited fair ones the oft-repeated verdict that he was so horridly
sarcastic.
But whoever Musgrave was or was not, the fact remained that he went down
the side of the _Siberian_ that afternoon, glad to take up the
subordinate post in the Cape Government service, which a bit of lucky
interest had procured for him; content to start afresh at his time of
life in a far-away, up-country township, upon a not extravagant salary.