wizened man, apparently over fifty years of age, with thin hands that looked as tough as wire.  His nose was much sharper than is usual among these races, and he had a queer habit of holding his head sideways like a bird when he spoke, which, in addition to the humour that lurked in his eye, gave him a most comical appearance.  Another strange thing about him was that he had a single white lock of hair among his black wool.  At last I spoke to him: 

“Indaba-zimbi, my friend,” I said, “you may be a good witch-doctor, but you are certainly a fool.  It is no good beckoning at the blue sky while your enemy is getting a start with the storm.”

“You may be clever, but don’t think you know everything, white man,” the old fellow answered, in a high, cracked voice, and with something like a grin.

“They call you Iron-tongue,” I went on; “you had better use it, or the Storm Devil won’t hear you.”

“The fire from above runs down iron,” he answered, “so I keep my tongue quiet.  Oh, yes, let him curse away, I’ll put him out presently.  Look now, white man.”

I looked, and in the eastern sky there grew a cloud.  At first it was small, though very black, but it gathered with extraordinary rapidity.

This was odd enough, but as I had seen the same thing happen before it did not particularly astonish me.  It is by no means unusual in Africa for two thunderstorms to come up at the same time from different points of the compass.

“You had better get on, Indaba-zimbi,” I said, “the big storm is coming along fast, and will soon eat up that baby of yours,” and I pointed to the west.

“Babies sometimes grow to giants, white man,” said Indaba-zimbi, beckoning away vigorously.  “Look now at my cloud-child.”

I looked; the eastern storm was spreading itself from earth to sky, and in shape resembled an enormous man.  There was its head, its shoulders, and its legs; yes, it was like a huge giant travelling across the heavens.  The light of the setting sun escaping from beneath the lower edge of the western storm shot across the intervening space in a sheet of splendour, and, lighting upon the advancing figure of cloud, wrapped its middle in hues of glory too wonderful to be described; but beneath and above this glowing belt his feet and head were black as jet.  Presently, as I watched, an awful flash of light shot from the head of the cloud, circled it about as though with a crown of living fire, and vanished.

“Aha,” chuckled old Indaba-zimbi, “my little boy is putting on his man’s ring,” and he tapped the gum ring on his own head, which natives assume when they reach a certain age and dignity.  “Now, white man, unless you are a bigger wizard than either of us you had better clear off, for the fire-fight is about to begin.”

I thought this sound advice.

“Good luck go with you, my black uncle,” I said.  “I hope you don’t feel the iniquities of a mis-spent life weighing on you at the last.”