Allan Quatermain.

KING SOLOMON’S MINES

CHAPTER I

I MEET SIR HENRY CURTIS

It is a curious thing that at my age—­fifty-five last birthday—­I should find myself taking up a pen to try to write a history.  I wonder what sort of a history it will be when I have finished it, if ever I come to the end of the trip!  I have done a good many things in my life, which seems a long one to me, owing to my having begun work so young, perhaps.  At an age when other boys are at school I was earning my living as a trader in the old Colony.  I have been trading, hunting, fighting, or mining ever since.  And yet it is only eight months ago that I made my pile.  It is a big pile now that I have got it—­I don’t yet know how big—­but I do not think I would go through the last fifteen or sixteen months again for it; no, not if I knew that I should come out safe at the end, pile and all.  But then I am a timid man, and dislike violence; moreover, I am almost sick of adventure.  I wonder why I am going to write this book:  it is not in my line.  I am not a literary man, though very devoted to the Old Testament and also to the “Ingoldsby Legends.”  Let me try to set down my reasons, just to see if I have any.

First reason:  Because Sir Henry Curtis and Captain John Good asked me.

Second reason:  Because I am laid up here at Durban with the pain in my left leg.  Ever since that confounded lion got hold of me I have been liable to this trouble, and being rather bad just now, it makes me limp more than ever.  There must be some poison in a lion’s teeth, otherwise how is it that when your wounds are healed they break out again, generally, mark you, at the same time of year that you got your mauling?  It is a hard thing when one has shot sixty-five lions or more, as I have in the course of my life, that the sixty-sixth should chew your leg like a quid of tobacco.  It breaks the routine of the thing, and putting other considerations aside, I am an orderly man and don’t like that.  This is by the way.

Third reason:  Because I want my boy Harry, who is over there at the hospital in London studying to become a doctor, to have something to amuse him and keep him out of mischief for a week or so.  Hospital work must sometimes pall and grow rather dull, for even of cutting up dead bodies there may come satiety, and as this history will not be dull, whatever else it may be, it will put a little life into things for a day or two while Harry is reading of our adventures.

Fourth reason and last:  Because I am going to tell the strangest story that I remember.  It may seem a queer thing to say, especially considering that there is no woman in it—­except Foulata.  Stop, though! there is Gagaoola, if she was a woman, and not a fiend.  But she was a hundred at least, and therefore not marriageable, so I don’t count her.  At any rate, I can safely say that there is not a petticoat in the whole history.