WHAT THE COUNTRY LOOKS LIKE 
l 9 
Presently it will be night with a sky of purple grey studded with pale gold 
specks of stars and planets, all of which will be reflected in the calm lake, 
so that the steamer will seem to be carving her way through a liquid universe. 
In a native village near to a great river there are three Europeans in a hut. 
Although styled generically a “ hut ” this native dwelling is of considerable size, 
with a high-peaked thatched roof like a broad-mouthed funnel in shape, the 
straggling ends of the thatch coming down to within a couple of feet of the 
ground and so, to some extent, shielding from the sun the raised verandah of 
grey mud which runs half round the outside. But the low-hanging thatch 
screens the doorway into the hut, making the interior dark even though the 
European occupants have broken small holes in the clay walls to let in a 
little more light from the shaded verandah. Inside, the rafters of palm ribs, 
which form the structure of the roof, are all shiny cockroach-black with the 
smoke of many months which has ascended to the roof and found its way 
out through the thatch. Cobwebs, covered with soot, hang from the rafters. 
Of the three white men inside this hut two are well and hearty—faces red, 
and arms sun-tanned—and are seated upon empty provision cases : the third is 
sick unto death, with dull eyes, haggard cheeks and—-if there is daylight enough 
to see it by—a complexion of yellowish-grey. He is stretched on a low camp 
bed, is dressed in a dirty sleeping suit, and partially covered by two trade 
blankets of garish red, blue and yellow, one of which slips untidily to the dusty 
floor of hardened earth. The two healthy men are smoking pipes vigorously ; 
but the smell of strong Boer tobacco is not sufficient to disguise the nauseous 
odours of the sick room, and the fumes of whisky, which arise both from an 
uncorked bottle and from the leavings of whisky and water in two enamelled- 
iron cups. 
By the sick man’s bedside on a deal box is an enamelled-iron basin con¬ 
taining grey gruel-like chicken broth, in which large bits of ship’s biscuit are 
floating. The soup has been made evidently without skill or care, for it has the 
yellow chicken fat floating on the top and even an occasional drowned feather 
attached to the sodden remnants of fowl. Also, there are a cup containing 
strong whisky and water (untouched), a long-necked bottle of lime juice, and 
a phial of Quinine pills. 
The sick man turns ever and anon to the further side of the bed to vomit, 
and after, one of these attacks he groans with the agony of futile nausea. 
“ Cheer up, old chap !” says one of his companions, “ we sent yesterday morning 
to the doctor-man at the mission station : it is only about thirty miles away and 
he ought to be here this afternoon.” The doorway is darkened for a moment 
but not with the doctor’s advent. A negro girl has stooped under the thatch to 
enter through the low doorway and for a moment obscures the dubious light 
refracted from the small piece of blazing sun-lit ground visible under the eaves. 
“ Here, git, you black slut,” shouts one of the men (he with the sandy beard and 
pockmarked face), lifting up a short whip of hippopotamus hide to enforce his 
remark. “ Hold on,” says the other healthy one, a tall brawny Cornishman, 
with dark eyes and black beard, “ it is only his girl ; harmless enough too, poor 
thing, considering she has known him more’n a fortnight. It’s wonderful what 
these nigger girls’ll do for a white man.” 
“ There are all sorts of girls, there is every kind of girl, 
There are some that are foolish, and many that are wise, 
You can trust them all, no doubt, but be careful to look out 
For the harmless little girlie with the downcast eyes,” 
