The Journal of a Sporting Nomad 
The boys having taken up their loads, we 
started on the road for Chimoio. The way 
was sandy, and the walking very bad. I 
noticed that my friend Cooe did not proceed 
after a few miles with his usual jaunty step. 
The reason was soon clear, for he sat down on 
the roadside and took off his once-prized boots, 
tying the laces together and hanging them 
round his neck. I laughed at him when he 
caught us up. He must have suffered a great 
deal from his love of vanity, for there were two 
large blisters on his heels—of course owing to his 
feet being unaccustomed to such an encum- 
brance. I amused myself on the march with 
this man by trying to teach him to count up to 
ten in English. For this purpose I held ten 
pieces of stick in one hand, counting them out 
slowly and aloud, he repeating it after me. 
However, the effort was not entirely a success, 
for he would jump from six to eight in the most 
uncompromising way, and then back to three 
perhaps, but it helped to while away the time 
on the road. 
At Chimoio I hired a truck to take my boys to 
Fontesvilla. They had never seen a train before 
in their lives, and it was most amusing to watch 
their faces and hear their exclamations, but 
what they said I was altogether unable to follow. 
Early one morning, therefore, I saw them safely 
stowed away in this open conveyance, the train 
104 
