A RACE WITH A KAFFIR. 119 



one mile, on the best part of the road near us, which 

 was pretty fair going for South Africa. 



A mile had been measured out, and already the 

 Kaffirs could be discerned about half-a-mile away, 

 near the winning-post, discussing and gesticulating 

 in excited groups. 



Our champion having donned the nearest 

 approach to running costume he can find, and 

 assumed a pair of canvas shoes which, luckily, he 

 has by him, is ready. Proper spiked running shoes 

 he has not, and indeed, on this occasion, they would 

 be of little use ; for though it is the best we can find, 

 the road is " far, far from gay," and has a fair 

 number of stones upon its surface, and to spring 

 with spiked shoes upon these would be, to say the 

 least, unpleasant. John, our Kaffir groom, who 

 looks after the horses, slaughters our daily goat, and 

 does odd jobs round the house, is anxiously waiting 

 to accompany us to the scene of action. John, it 

 may be mentioned, is a tall, wiry Gcaleka, standing 

 six feet two inches, and has not long since arrived 

 here in search of work from the territory beyond the 

 Kei, commonly known as Kaffirland. He is not a bad 

 sort of fellow if he is rubbed the right way, but, like 

 most other Kaffirs, he considers himself a gentleman 

 (and so, indeed, many of them are), and likes to do 

 his work in his own way, and, it must be admitted, 

 at his own time. To-day, John is resplendent in a 

 complete suit of coat and trousers, and, moreover, 

 wears above his good-humoured face an old top 

 hat, recently purchased, in which he, no doubt, 

 expects to create an impression on the Kaffirs who 

 dwell in the adjacent kraal. 



All being ready, we stroll down to the winning- 



