On a small corner shelf was a large brown earthenware teapot with the words "Advance Australia" done in raised letters. Four enamelled ware egg cups were its companions.

One wall was devoted exclusively to kitchen utensils; new tin kettles predominated, but almost everything was represented.

Opposite this bright array the wall was literally covered with bedding.

The centre piece was a mattress; sheets on one side, blankets on the other, pillows above, bolsters below.

But what shocked Gregory more than anything else was a regular trousseau of feminine underclothing, ranged round the door through which he had entered. He blushed hotly and with difficulty suppressed an impulse to bolt without ceremony.

"What do you think of my house, my friend?"

"I think it--er--beautiful, the most wonderful in all the world."

"Yes, I thought you would like it. Do you not like the things my people use? For myself, I like the things the white people use. You put the black man's things in your house. I put the white man's things in my house. We are two friends who have the same thoughts. You buy from the people. I buy from the traders. The traders have promised to bring me many more things. My house is not finished yet. After the rains it will be finished, then you must come and see it again."

When Gregory reached his bungalow after his journey he stripped his walls and packed all his curios in boxes. These he despatched to his father in England, who was very pleased with them.

He replaced his curios by the Hundred Best Pictures, framed suitably in fumed oak.

"LIZIZI."

I.

The Native Commissioner was hurrying home. It was nearly midday and getting hot. Moreover, he had been on a long journey and was anxious to get back to his bungalow which, for him, meant a measure of civilisation. His garden, his books, prints on the wall, white ducks, fair cooking and no more tinned food for a while, a cool verandah and occasional converse with his fellow officials. At daylight he had left his caravan to follow whilst he pushed on ahead.

His st.u.r.dy horse also had thoughts of home for, in spite of the heat, he cantered briskly along the dusty road without any encouragement from his master. Half a mile from the house a short cut skirted a patch of young gum trees and led through the servants' compound to the back door of the bungalow.

The horse, without hesitation and not waiting for direction, took the short cut. As a general rule the Commissioner chose the longer way. He preferred entering his own house by the front door; he had designed and built his home himself and had given much thought to its face and approach, for, who could tell, might he not some day lead an English bride up the winding drive?

The Commissioner let the beast have his way: he was amused and, leaning forward, patted his horse's neck.

As he clattered through the compound he caught sight of some of his servants conversing with a stranger. There was nothing remarkable in that, but two things he noticed. One, that his people did not see or hear him until he was almost abreast of them, and secondly, that the stranger, a native from the river district, let him pa.s.s without the usual salute.

He rode on and dismounted at the back of the house. A groom took his horse. A small boy opened the door for him and led him through to the front hall. The Commissioner dropped into a chair and, after a short rest, busied himself with getting comfortable.

A shave, followed by a hot bath, a change into "slacks," a light luncheon, and a pipe. Then he attacked his acc.u.mulated mail. He had scarcely sorted his home from his official letters--the latter could well wait--when his head house boy came in rather breathless.

"Morena," he said, "what is to-day?"

"What do you mean, the day of the month or of the week, and why do you ask?"

"Oh no," said the boy, "but what is the number of the day?"

"Tuesday the sixth. Why?"

"It is only that I wanted to know, for has not the Morena been absent for a great many days?"

"Well, it's the sixth, Tuesday the sixth of September."

"Thank you, Morena."

The boy withdrew.

The Native Commissioner turned to his letters again. His mother had written pages telling him of his sister's engagement to his oldest friend; his sister wrote more pages about her happiness; his father referred to his younger brother at Oxford, to the engagement just announced, and described the latest strike at some length.

Presently he got up and went out to the verandah to stretch his legs. He admired his garden and mentally praised his own cunning in setting it out. The rains had not yet broken but some of the trees were already in new leaf. What a blaze of colour there would be in a few weeks!

"Morena, what day is it to-day?"

Turning, he met the gaze of a garden labourer who, spade in hand, was standing slightly in advance of some half a dozen of his fellows.

"The sixth. But why do you ask?"

"It is because black people do not know how to count, and one day with us is as another."

All returned to their work. A few minutes later the dog boy came with a litter born during his master's absence. They were a likely looking lot and the native took personally the remarks pa.s.sed upon his charge: he appeared to a.s.sume responsibility for their colour, shape and s.e.x.

"Morena, what day is it to-day?"

"Why?"

"See, Morena, I mark each day on a stick; the dogs were born ten days ago."

"Well, it's the sixth."

"Thank you, Morena."

At sundown the cattle came in. The herdsman came up to the house to report that the two calves born whilst his master was away on his journey were heifers, and received a few shillings as a reward for his good management When bull calves came the cattle herd made many excuses and neither expected nor received any reward.

"You have done well."

"Thank you, Morena," said the boy, tying the silver in a corner of his loin cloth. "What is the number of the day to-day?"

Now this was the fourth time the question had been asked. What did it mean? Could it mean anything of importance and, if so, what?

But the Commissioner decided in his own mind that his people had some trivial dispute and were appealing to him to settle a knotty point.

Still, he felt a little curious as to what that point might be, but knowing natives well, concluded that he would hear about it all in good time.

He asked no question this time but replied simply: "The sixth."

The news of his return spread quickly and several officials dropped in for a "sundowner." Headquarters news, dull and trivial as it usually is, was quickly disposed of. The Browns had gone home on leave, Jones had just come back, and Robinson had pa.s.sed the law exam very well. A lion had been heard outside the township, and a mad cur had run amok through the compounds and, as a result, several good dogs had been shot and half a dozen natives sent south for treatment.

What sport had the Commissioner had?