I called for water. " Water ! " roared Jim, " bring 

 water " ; and glaring round he made a spring stick 

 in hand at the nearest kaffir. The boy fled in terror, 

 with Jim after him for a few paces, and brought a 

 bucket of water. Jim snatched it from him and with 

 a resounding thump on the ribs sent the unlucky 

 kaffir sprawling on the ground. Jock took the water 

 in great gulpy bites broken by pauses to get his breath 

 again ; and Jim paced up and down talking, talking, 

 talking ! Talking to me, to the others, to the kaffirs, 

 to Jock, to the world at large, to the heavens, and to 

 the dead. His eyes glared like a wild beast's and 

 gradually little seams of froth gathered in the corners 

 of his mouth as he poured out his cataract of words, 

 telling of all Jock had done and might have done 

 and would yet do ; comparing him with the fighting 

 heroes of his own race, and wandering off into vivid 

 recitals of single episodes and great battles ; seizing 

 his sticks, shouting his war cries, and going through 

 all the mimicry of fight with the wild frenzy of one 

 possessed. Time after time I called him and tried 

 to quiet him ; but he was beyond control. 



Once before he had broken out like this. I had 

 asked him something about the Zulu war ; and that 

 had started a flood of memories and excitement. In 

 the midst of some description I asked why they killed 

 the children ; and he turned his glaring eyes on me 

 ,1 and said, " Inkos, you are my Inkos ; 

 but you are white. If we fight to- 

 morrow, I will kill you. You are 

 good to me, you have 



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