On the following morning we renewed our discussion, debating in detail every possible method of reaching the Kendah people by help of such means as we could command.  Like that of the previous night it proved somewhat abortive.  Obviously such a long and hazardous expedition ought to be properly financed and—­where was the money?  At length I came to the conclusion that if we went at all it would be best, in the circumstances, for Hans and myself to start alone with a Scotch cart drawn by oxen and driven by a couple of Zulu hunters, which we could lade with ammunition and a few necessaries.

Thus lightly equipped we might work through Zululand and thence northward to Beza-Town, the capital of the Mazitu, where we were sure of a welcome.  After that we must take our chance.  It was probable that we should never reach the district where these Kendah were supposed to dwell, but at least I might be able to kill some elephants in the wild country beyond Zululand.

While we were talking I heard the gun fired which announced the arrival of the English mail, and stepping to the end of the garden, saw the steamer lying at anchor outside the bar.  Then I went indoors to write a few business letters which, since I had become immersed in the affairs of that unlucky gold mine, had grown to be almost a daily task with me.  I had got through several with many groanings, for none were agreeable in their tenor, when Hans poked his head through the window in a silent kind of a way as a big snake might do, and said:  “Baas, I think there are two baases out on the road there who are looking for you.  Very fine baases whom I don’t know.”

“Shareholders in the Bona Fide Gold Mine,” thought I to myself, then added as I prepared to leave through the back door:  “If they come here tell them I am not at home.  Tell them I left early this morning for the Congo River to look for the sources of the Nile.”

“Yes, Baas,” said Hans, collapsing on to the stoep.

I went out through the back door, sorrowing that I, Allan Quatermain, should have reached a rung in the ladder of life whence I shrank from looking any stranger in the face, for fear of what he might have to say to me.  Then suddenly my pride asserted itself.  After all what was there of which I should be ashamed?  I would face these irate shareholders as I had faced the others yesterday.

I walked round the little house to the front garden which was planted with orange trees, and up to a big moonflower bush, I believe datura is its right name, that grew near the pomegranate hedge which separated my domain from the road.  There a conversation was in progress, if so it may be called.

“Ikona” (that is:  “I don’t know"), “Inkoosi” (i.e.  “Chief"), said some Kafir in a stupid drawl.

Thereon a voice that instantly struck me as familiar, answered: 

“We want to know where the great hunter lives.”