A Thousand Miles in a Machilla 



is considered a superior kind of work to that of an 

 ordinary porter. 



By 2 P.M. all was ready. But just as John was 

 receiving his final instructions as to the halting 

 place — a stream about six miles from Fort Jameson 

 on the northern road — he received a telegram from 

 Blantyre to say that his brother was dead, and 

 asking him to return to wind up the estate. John 

 collapsed and lost his wits at once — wits always a 

 little apt to go at the time of a fresh start. A move 

 had to be made, so there was nothing for it but 

 to explain to him in clear but forcible language 

 that this was no time for sorrow, that work was now 

 his portion, and that the winding up of the estate 

 could perfectly well await his return from Broken 

 Hill. Franco was put in temporary charge of him, 

 and he was started off with his carriers. 



They had hardly got under way when a fresh 

 and sturdier-looking lot of porters turned up — a 

 further testimony, had one been wanted, to the 

 excellence of the local transport arrangements. 

 These men were sent on after the caravan with a 

 message to John to select the best of the whole 

 contingent and return the surplus to Fort Jameson. 

 We have reason to fear, however, that his grief 

 prevented him coping with the situation to the best 

 advantage, and that in many instances the worst, 

 and not the best, men were retained. 



At 5 P.M. we took leave of our kind hosts and 

 started on our way. The road, after passing 

 through the town, ran almost immediately into the 

 small acacia forest, which we practically did not 



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