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 



