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"Sit down.... When did you come to Johannesburg?"

"Only yesterday. Been in Cape Town."

"What brought you to South Africa?"

"You should ask what took me to England. I know South Africa—Australia. Fortune-hunter—I haven't always carried gentlemen's bags for a bob." He chuckled.

"You can shoot, then, probably."

The man snatched a revolver from his hip-pocket, and negligently shot a peach from a tree in the yard.

"Good in this half-light"—Cobby presented some vegueras—"have a cigar."

"Thanks—I'm in misery—can't smoke——"

"Not well yet?"

"Better—not well. You hear how I talk—across a hot potato."

"Yes, I can tell that there is something. Healthy otherwise?"

"Oh, yes, I'm all there." He chuckled.

"Talk Zulu?"

"Some. Can cluck some Hottentot, too."

"Well, come inside: I'll send for my partner, Mr. Rolls, and we'll discuss details."

But Rolls, sent for, could not be found; and Cobby, apprehensive lest this one also should be got at, struck a bargain, asking, as he wrote a contract: "What is your name?"