"He reminds me of a man who was one of a shooting party I was with up on
the Inyati. There were several of us, and we slept in a _scherm_, very
snug and jolly we were too. But the moonlight nights were heavenly, and
I was restless and couldn't sleep--so I used to get up and light my
pipe, and stroll about outside, and admire the view, and all that sort
of thing. Well, after a couple of nights or so the chap who slept next
me objected--swore I was an outrageously restless beggar and disturbed
him half a dozen times a night, and wouldn't I go and sleep on the other
side of the _scherm_ in future? I put it to him how the demon could I
be anything but restless when I found myself turned in alongside of a
saw-mill in full blast--not even a respectable saw-mill either, and one
of regular habits, but one that started on a hard-grained slab and
buzzed through that, then struck a hard knot and bucked and kicked and
returned to the charge, and finally screamed through it, and no sooner
had it resumed the even tenor of its way than a nail had to be
negotiated. Well, as for the cutting through of that nail, I give it
up. I suppose the infernal regions alone could produce such sounds of
soul-splitting stridency as those evolved by my next-door neighbour's
blowpipes when it got to that."
Clare was convulsed.
"How did you settle it?" she said.
"Why, he went and turned in alongside of a man who was stone deaf in one
ear, and half in the other, so it didn't matter. Fullerton is a terror
to snore, too, and with a little more practice he'll be as good as the
other man. Just listen to him."
"Eh? What's that about me?" ejaculated the object of this remark,
starting up spasmodically, and rubbing his eyes. "Why, I believe I've
been asleep."
"I don't know about that, old chap," laughed Wyndham. "What we do know
is that you must have worked off a biggish contract in the plank sawing
line, since we last heard the sound of your manly voice. Don't we, Miss
Vidal?"
"Well, this scooting through the air--hot air too--makes one snoozy,"
explained Fullerton, uttering a cavernous yawn. "Hallo! I must have
been asleep a good time, we're at Skrine's already."
They had topped a rise, and now on the slope beneath, and in front,
stood two or three buildings, with the usual native huts and goat kraal
behind. But about the place no sign of life showed.
"Great Scott! I believe there isn't a soul on the place," said Wyndham
anxiously. "No, I thought not," as they rattled up to the door, and saw
that it was securely shut, and that of the stable padlocked. Then,
putting his head round the tent of the waggon, "Sergeant!"
"Sir?" answered the non-com. trotting up.
"Fall back just out of earshot with your men, and do a little language
for us, will you? We can't, we've got ladies with us. Skrine's store's
no good. Skrine's away and his idiotic stable's locked up. No use
outspanning here."
The police sergeant spluttered--and those in the waggon laughed. Yet
not very light-heartedly. It was really a nuisance, for it meant that
they must push on another stage to the Kezane Store--the original plan,
but one which Wyndham had already recognised that Langrishe was right in
advising him to abandon; for the heat and the pace had already told on
the mules.
They would have laughed less light-heartedly, or rather they would not
have laughed at all, had they known that about a mile back, and only a
few hundred yards from the road, the bodies of Skrine and three other
men, who had fled thus far for their lives, were lying among the bushes,
their skulls smashed, and their poor faces hacked and gory beyond
recognition, stamped with the ghastly imprint of their awful
death-agony, staring upward to the serene and cloudless blue of heaven.