Prester John by John Buchan Page A

object at that. I had never seen such an anatomy. It was a very old man, bent almost double, and clad in a ragged shirt and a pair of foul khaki trousers. He carried an iron pot, and a few belongings were tied up in a dirty handkerchief. He must have been a
dacha
* -smoker, for he coughed hideously, twisting his body with the paroxysms. I had seen the type before – the old broken-down native who had no kin to support him, and no tribe to shelter him. They wander about the roads, cooking their wretched meals by their little fires, till one morning they are found still under a bush.
    The native gave me good-day in Kaffir, then begged for tobacco or a handful of mealie-meal.
    I asked him where he came from.
    â€˜From the west, Inkoos,’ he said, ‘and before that from the south. It is a sore road for old bones.’
    I went into the store to fetch some meal, and when I came out he had shuffled close to the door. He had kept his eyes on the ground, but now he looked up at me, and I thought he had very bright eyes for such an old wreck.
    â€˜The nights are cold, Inkoos,’ he wailed, ‘and my folks are scattered, and I have no kraal. The aasvogels follow me, and I can hear the blesbok.’
    â€˜What about the blesbok?’ I asked with a start.
    â€˜The blesbok are changing ground,’ he said, and looked me straight in the face.
    â€˜And where are the hunters?’ I asked.
    â€˜They are here and behind me,’ he said in English, holding out his pot for my meal, while he began to edge into the middle of the road.
    I followed, and, speaking English, asked him if he knew of a man named Colles.
    â€˜I come from him, young Baas. Where is your house? Ah, the school. There will be a way in by the back window? See that it is open, for I’ll be there shortly.’ Then lifting up his voice hecalled down in Sesutu all manner of blessings on me for my kindness, and went shuffling down the sunlit road, coughing like a volcano.
    In high excitement I locked up the store and went over to Mr Wardlaw. No children had come to school that day, and he was sitting idle, playing patience. ‘Lock the door,’ I said, ‘and come into my room. We’re on the brink of explanations.’
    In about twenty minutes the bush below the back-window parted and the Kaffir slipped out. He grinned at me, and after a glance round, hopped very nimbly over the sill. Then he examined the window and pulled the curtains.
    â€˜Is the outer door shut?’ he asked in excellent English. ‘Well, get me some hot water, and any spare clothes you may possess, Mr Crawfurd. I must get comfortable before we begin
indaba
* . We’ve the night before us, so there’s plenty of time. But get the house clear, and see that nobody disturbs me at my toilet. I am a modest man, and sensitive about my looks.’
    I brought him what he wanted, and looked on at an amazing transformation. Taking a phial from his bundle, he rubbed some liquid on his face and neck and hands, and got rid of the black colouring. His body and legs he left untouched, save that he covered them with shirt and trousers from my wardrobe. Then he pulled off a scaly wig, and showed beneath it a head of close-cropped grizzled hair. In ten minutes the old Kaffir had been transformed into an active soldierly-looking man of maybe fifty years. Mr Wardlaw stared as if he had seen a resurrection.
    â€˜I had better introduce myself,’ he said, when he had taken the edge off his thirst and hunger. ‘My name is Arcoll, Captain James Arcoll. I am speaking to Mr Crawfurd, the storekeeper, and Mr Wardlaw, the schoolmaster, of Blaauwildebeestefontein. Where, by the way, is Mr Peter Japp? Drunk? Ah, yes, it was always his failing. The quorum, however, is complete without him.’
    By this time it was about sunset, and I remember I cocked my ear to hear the drums beat. Captain Arcoll noticed the movement as he noticed all else.
    â€˜You’re