The presence of Ferrier at the farm solved John's difficulty about the sheep and calves. He had rather more than 800 lambs altogether, of which 450 rams were for sale, and might be expected to fetch about 90.

He had also fifteen calves, which might realize 1 each, and the 105 thus gained would relieve his present anxieties and go far towards defraying the second year's expenses. In addition to these, there was a considerable weight of cheese to be taken to market. He had become so chummy with Ferrier that he did not hesitate to mention to him the difficulty about transporting the animals.

"There's no difficulty at all," said the Canadian at once. "Take them yourself. I'll stay here while you are gone. A rest will do me all the good in the world. You must certainly leave a white man in charge, and I've come in the nick of time."

"It's jolly of you," said John. "I'd accept your offer in a moment if it weren't for those blackguards who stole our rifles. It would be hard lines on you if they came and attacked you while I was away."

"They won't do it. You told me yourself that you'd sent Bill out to see if he could discover their whereabouts, and he didn't hear anything of them. Besides, if they do come we can defend ourselves. They didn't show any eagerness to come to very close quarters with us, and I don't doubt for a moment that with my men and yours--I suppose the Indians can handle a rifle on occasion?--we could beat them off."

"Very well, then: I'll chance it. I'll take Wasama and three men from the village: his boy can look after the cattle here. I shall have to hire another Masai to help when I get back: there's too much work for two now. You'll find Bill a great help; I wish he would come and live here, but he's an independent old boy and won't leave his little hut in the wood."

"Hadn't you better take him with you? Four men won't be enough for the job. You must carry food and a tent, you know."

"I didn't mean to take a tent. Why not camp in the open?"

"You'd be rather sorry if it happened to rain."

"But the rains aren't due for another month," objected John, looking at his almanac.

"I dare say not, but they may start a bit earlier, and if you think you're going to get all those beasts to Nairobi in a week, or even two, you're mistaken. Remember the streams to cross and the thorn bush to get through. And you'll have to put a boma round the whole lot every night, and that will be a long job with so few men. You'll need twenty at the very least, my boy, so make up your mind for it. Ask Wasama."

John had in fact felt some misgiving lest the party he proposed to take should not be strong enough to guard the animals against wild beasts, or natives who chanced to be hostile or predatory; but he was so anxious to economize that he had stilled his doubts. When Wasama backed up Ferrier's point, he yielded to the inevitable, and engaged fifteen more men in the village. Ferrier insisted on his taking the three Uganda men he had retained out of his safari, because they were not only trained porters, but very fair shots. John wished he had a horse to ride, or at least a mule, not caring about donkey-rides: but Ferrier chaffed him on his singular regard for appearances, and he decided at last to mount the best of the donkeys.

One fine September day the safari set off, numbering twenty in all. Coja was very much depressed at not being able to accompany his master, but his wound was not yet sufficiently healed. The start was watched by the whole community, and as John rode off in the rear of the caravan he felt sure he heard Said Mohammed's high-pitched voice quote, "The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea," and proceed to a recitation of the Elegy.

John had had an inkling of the difficulties of droving, but the reality turned out to be immeasurably worse than the antic.i.p.ation. The animals, being young, could not be driven hard; their pace at the best was two miles an hour, and often less than one, and as frequent halts were necessary, the longest day's march did not exceed eight miles. The obstacles which had given only amus.e.m.e.nt or excitement on the journey from Nairobi caused exasperation now. There were many streams to cross, and it was often difficult to induce the sheep to face them. Sometimes they were almost invisible in the long gra.s.s, and when they came among th.o.r.n.y bush, the men had to use their knives freely in hacking a path for the beasts, causing hours of delay. For the first week all went fairly well. The bleating of the sheep attracted hyenas, but by dint of great vigilance and activity they were kept off, and only two sheep were seized. In crossing one stream Wasama had a narrow escape from the jaws of a crocodile; but the water in most ran so low after the dry season that it was easy to examine the beds and avoid danger of this kind.

On the eighth night, however, John was awakened by the pattering of rain on his tent. It poured in torrents, and when he got up in the morning he found half-a-dozen sheep stretched lifeless on the sodden earth. It was still raining at the usual time for starting, and the animals could not be induced to move, but turned their backs to the wind and huddled together in a compact ma.s.s. The weather cleared about ten o'clock, and then a start was made; but the safari had only been an hour on the road when another downpour checked them. So it continued all day--drenching rain, with brief intervals of sunshine. John persevered, taking advantage of every bright period to move on a little farther; but when the rain finally ceased in the evening he found that during the whole laborious day he had not covered more than about three miles. Some of the sheep had lagged terribly, and it was quite dark when the last of them came into camp, and before they could all be got within the boma a couple of hyenas sprang among them out of the surrounding bush and killed several.

This was only the beginning of trouble. It rained nearly every night, and every night some of the sheep died. The streams were much swollen and flowed so swiftly that it was only with the utmost difficulty that the men prevented the animals from being washed away. One river took two hours to cross, each individual animal having to be pa.s.sed over from hand to hand. At another the current was so rapid that it seemed hopeless to attempt to cross it at all, until John, with a good deal of risk, managed to swim over slantwise with a rope, which he fastened to a tree on the further bank. With the help of this, every man and beast was got across safely, but with such an expenditure of labour that all were thoroughly exhausted. That night, to add to John's misfortunes, his donkey was killed by a hyena, and he was in a state of miserable depression when he started to resume his journey.

The one satisfactory feature of the march was that the natives met _en route_ had been friendly. The food was exhausted when the safari had been ten days on the road, but they had no difficulty in purchasing muhindi or ca.s.sava at the villages. John's rifle provided all necessary meat, and at one stream he shot a crocodile, the flesh of which was highly prized by his men. But the very friendliness of the people became a source of anxiety. They offered their services in helping to drive the animals, and at the end of a day when they had apparently been very useful, John found that six sheep had mysteriously disappeared. He blamed Wasama for not warning him of the thievish propensities of the volunteer drovers, much to the surprise of the Masai, who said he thought everybody knew that a man would take what he could get if he had the chance. After that, John refused all a.s.sistance, however generously it was pressed upon him, and kept a sharp eye on the natives who hung about the flanks of the safari. With all his vigilance he lost a dozen more sheep and a fine bull calf by theft, and he began despairingly to wonder whether he would have any animals left by the time he arrived in Nairobi.

But everything comes to an end. One day, nearly four weeks after leaving the farm, he caught sight of the chimney-stack of the Nairobi locomotive works in the distance. Five hours later he trudged wearily into the town, conscious that he presented a deplorable and disreputable appearance. His clothes were torn and dirty; the sole of his right boot had parted from the upper and flapped as he walked, while that of the left boot had gone altogether, and he trod on his sock. He felt thoroughly knocked up, and after he had seen his animals safely penned, he could hardly drag himself to Mr. Gillespie's house. To his surprise n.o.body in the streets seemed to pay the least attention to his appearance; he supposed that such sights were not uncommon; and Mr.

Gillespie did not start back with the look of horror which in his self-consciousness John had expected. The coffee-planter greeted him warmly, but had no sooner taken him to his room than he whipped out a clinical thermometer and stuck it into John's mouth.

"Thought so," he said, when he examined it. "You've a touch of fever, and no wonder. You'll go straight to bed, my boy. We'll have a talk in the morning."

After a hot bath, John was tucked up between the blankets and dosed with quinine by Mrs. Gillespie, and he fell asleep with a happiness and a sense of security to which he seemed to have been a stranger for years.

He was better in the morning, but Mr. Gillespie would not allow him to quit his bed.

"You just leave it to me," he said when John protested that he must see about selling his animals. "I'll go and take a look at them. You won't sell them for a day or two: they'll be all the better for a rest. I've just heard from your father, by the way. He's a gay old dog, upon my word, gadding about on the Continent. You must have written glowing accounts of the farm, or he'd have been back before this. I dare say there's a letter for you by the same mail: you'll find it when you get back. And how do you like ranching, eh?"

They had a long talk, and Mr. Gillespie said he thought he had done very well for the first year. He laughed when John related the incidents of his march.

"You'll get used to it," he said. "It's rather disheartening at first, but you may think yourself lucky the natives didn't bother you. When I first came out here ten years ago I had a running fight with one of the tribes for a week, and lost practically everything I possessed. Things are safer now."

John told him about the desertion of Juma with the rifles, and the plight from which he had rescued Ferrier.

"That's unpleasant," said Mr. Gillespie. "If you take my advice you'll go back by way of Fort Hall and report to the District Commissioner. He may be disposed to send a company of the Protectorate police to deal with the ruffians. I'm afraid it's not a big enough job for the King's African Rifles. Probably they won't trouble you again, however. Their ammunition will soon be exhausted, and they can't get any more."

John remained in Nairobi for a week. He found that he had lost fifty-two sheep and one calf, besides his donkey; but Mr. Gillespie said that the animals were a healthy lot, and handed over 1500 rupees as the proceeds of the sale. The cheese fetched 100 rupees. John banked the greater part of the money, keeping a little to buy new clothes for himself, a few articles for the farm, and a fresh stock of "trade" for the payment of his native workers. Then, feeling that Ferrier might be growing uneasy at his long absence, he set off one day with his safari on the return journey, feeling pretty well satisfied with the tangible result of his first year's labours.

He went by way of Fort Hall, as Mr. Gillespie had suggested. He found it to be only a fort in the sense in which that word was used to describe the stations of the Hudson's Bay Company in the Far North. A substantial house perched on a hill, with a solid stone wall and a ditch around it, the flag of the Protectorate flying from a staff in the compound, a few huts and houses, a jail, and an Indian bazaar: that was Fort Hall. The Commissioner received him hospitably, and listened attentively to his story.

"Well, Mr. Halliday," he said, "the tribesmen certainly ought to be taught a lesson: in fact, they clearly have been taught a lesson. I don't know that I can do anything. I got your message, of course, but had no men available. You see, we don't care to start police expeditions if we can avoid it. It means great expense, and we want all our funds for peaceful development. Of course if you hadn't already given them a dressing we should have had to do something; but I fancy you've given them a fright, and they won't bother you again. You're rather far away, and a few years ago you would have had a very hot time there; but there are signs all over the country that the natives are settling down peaceably under our government, and the moral effect of the crushing of the Masai rebellion has been enormous. Let me know at once if you have any further trouble."

The interview left John with the impression that he could expect little a.s.sistance from the officials. In this he probably did them an injustice. It is not altogether harmful that the settler should be self-reliant.

CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH--Rhinoceros and Lions

"I'm jolly glad you're back, old man," said Ferrier, as John marched in one day at the head of his safari. "Began to think you were lost. How did you get on?"

"Splendidly," said John, cheerful after his quick journey home. "That is, pretty well; in fact" (as his memory and his sense of veracity awoke) "I had the rottenest time I ever had in my life. That sounds a bit of a muddle, I know, but I'll tell you all about it presently. How have things been going here?"

"Splendidly: that is, pretty well; and I'm glad you're back in time to prevent me from having the rottenest time I've ever had in my life. It's just short of that at present."

"What! Have those blackguards been bothering you?"

"Worse! Lions!"

"Oh! Is that it? I don't know that they're worse than the natives, though."

"Yes, they are, because it doesn't come to a fair stand-up fight.

They're cowardly, skulking brutes, and so disgustingly clever."

John laughed at Ferrier's aggrieved tone and look.

"Well, I'll get a bath and a feed, and then we'll talk it over," he said. "I hope our people have behaved well?"

"Oh yes! Lulu has been a mother to me--at a distance, of course; and Said Mohammed has been a delight three times a day. But go and get your bath; you'll stand here talking for ever."

Half-an-hour later John, having changed into a suit of white drill, was sitting at table with Ferrier in the little dining-room of the bungalow.

It struck him as rather bare and cold-looking after Mr. Gillespie's comfortable rooms, and he resolved, if things went well the second year, to buy a few bits of furniture.

"It wants a woman, you know," said Ferrier. "She'd rig up some curtains and make things look cheerful in no time. But you'll never get a woman to live among lions."

"Verree true, sir--excuse the liberty," remarked Said Mohammed, as he handed the fish. "A lion among ladies is a most dreadful thing; for there is not a more fearful wild-fowl than your lion living."

"That's how he goes on," said Ferrier, exploding when the Bengali had gone for the joint. "That's Shakespeare; next time it'll be Milton."

"Did Shakespeare write that rubbish about the wild-fowl?"

"Why, that's the excellent Nick Bottom in _Midsummer Night's Dream_!"