Ben Halse's store was full of native women, some with babies and some
without; and all were chattering. Two or three had come there to do a
deal, and the rest had come to see them do it.
"_Au_! but this is not the right kind," muttered one, with a
dissatisfied shake of the head, holding up a blue skirt; the others
joining critically in its examination. "I want one red and striped, not
spotted like this."
"Here it is, then," cheerfully returned Verna, producing another. She
was presiding goddess on this occasion, as indeed she often was.
But the other, although red and striped, did not seem to please. It was
examined critically by the whole committee, except one or two, who,
squatted on the floor, were giving undivided attention and,
incidentally, nutriment to their infants. The stripes were white
instead of yellow, and they ought to be yellow. No white things were
worn now.
Verna laughed good-humouredly. She knew her customers. No deal was
ever effected with such without seemingly endless discussion--and
objections.
"No white things!" she echoed. "Why, _I_ wear white things."
"_Inkosikazi_!"
"Well, why not you?"
"_Au_!" and the intending buyer brought a hand to her mouth with a
smothered laugh. "Inkosikazi does not belong to the chief."
"The chief. What chief?"
"U' Sapazani."
"Sapazani?" rejoined Verna. "But he does not like the clothing of white
people at all. Yet you are buying it."
This was a fact. Though on terms of friendship with Ben Halse Sapazani
was anything but fond of the trader's compatriots, and discouraged as
far as he could the introduction of European customs and clothing. With
the latter, in consequence, the store was but scantily supplied.
"It is for wear in the towns, _Nkosikazi_," was the answer, and then
after some haggling the deal was completed. Then others came forward.
Some wanted one thing, some another, but all haggled. Verna, of course,
was used to this. It was all in the day's work, and took up some time.
The deal completed, the buyers went outside to talk it over. Two young
men came in next. One wanted a sheath-knife and one a green blanket.
These were paid for without haggling, Verna throwing in a length of roll
tobacco by way of a _bonsela_, or gift to seal the bargain.
The interior of the up-to-date trading store in Zululand presents a very
different appearance to the old-time one. There are the knives, and
strings of beads, and three-legged cooking-pots, and tobacco of the old
days; but there is also a large and varied assortment of European
clothing--male and female--the latter preponderating in quantity and
degrees of gorgeousness. Umbrellas, too, and looking-glasses, even
boots, form no unimportant items in the general "notions" displayed.
This particular store, however, did less trade in such things than most;
and the reason may be found in the dialogue set forward above.
Sapazani, the powerful chief of that section, was the most conservative
of Zulus, and discouraged any sort of aping of European ways. But if
Ben Halse's trade suffered in this respect it more than gained in
others.
Now Verna, for all her attractiveness, was a shrewd and practical young
woman, and assisted her father materially in the management of his
trade. He did more than a little cattle raising and cattle jobbing, and
thus had his hands more free than would otherwise have been the case.
In fact, it was a prevalent idea among the people that they could always
get more favourable terms in the inevitable haggle when "U' Ben"
happened to be presiding at the receipt of custom than when the same
held good of his daughter.
By the way, there was a curious jagged hole in the thin plank lining of
the corrugated iron wall of the room, about a yard to the right of the
door and less than twice that measure from the ground, and its history
was this: One day a Zulu had come in to buy things. He was a big man
and unringed, and hailed from the other end of the country. Moreover,
he had been away working at Johannesburg and so had lost much of his
inherent awe of the white man, and still more of the white woman. This
fellow's demeanour, at first bold and off-hand, became insolent, even
threatening. Verna was alone, and he knew it.
He flung down a pair of boots that he was haggling over, flung it
violently onto the counter, so that one of the pair almost hit her,
using the while loud and violent language. But he was out of his
reckoning.
There crashed forth a loud report, and with a whizz and a scatter of
splinters the bullet pierced the wall planking, but so near that the
aggressive ruffian felt the breath of it on his arm.
"That for a warning, _ishinga_," [rascal], said the girl. "The next
carries death."
The startled savage stood as though petrified. He stared at the tall,
fine, commanding figure. He took in every detail--the compression of
the lips, the hard glint in the dilated eyes, the uncommonly
dangerous-looking "bull-dog" revolver, held in a firm grip without a
tremor, and pointing direct at his chest. Then he uttered a single
word--subdued, respectful--
"_Inkosikazi_!"