In the year 1898 Sergeant Johnson, the one with the bright red beard, was sent up country to establish and to remain in charge of the new out-station of Likonga. Likonga, a little-known spot in Central Africa, was, and still is, miles away from civilisation. Sergeant Johnson's command was cut to small dimensions by malaria at headquarters. He had but a corporal and two men. Likonga in those days consisted of nothing but a name on the map, and nothing at all in the way of buildings or anything else to show you when you had got there. The Commandant of Police had dotted vaguely the imperfect sketch map with his pencil, and had instructed Sergeant Johnson to go there. The Sergeant had glanced at the map as it lay on the office table, and had said, "Yes, sir."

"You will take with you Corporal Merton and Privates Hay and Hare. I cannot spare more."

Again the Sergeant said, "Yes, sir."

"You will take rations for ninety days, the small buck waggon, and the black span of oxen."

For the third time Sergeant Johnson said, "Yes, sir."

Now, this man with the bright red beard had been a soldier elsewhere before he became a policeman in the middle of Africa. His old training had not encouraged questions, so he never asked any now. When, therefore, the Commandant of Police glanced up from the map, the Sergeant saluted, turned about, and left the office.

He wasted no time. He took Corporal Merton, Privates Hay and Hare, the small waggon, ninety days' rations, a span of fourteen black oxen, the Zulu Jacob to drive, and the Kaffir boy "Nine-thirty" to lead.

Just before sundown he pulled out of camp. It is hardly necessary, perhaps, to say that the leader of a waggon is the native who walks in front of the oxen, but it is necessary to explain that a leader of oxen in Africa answers to any name flung at him. This particular one was called "Nine-thirty" because, without any apparent effort, he stood and walked with his feet splayed at what should have been an impossible angle to his legs. If his right big toe pointed east, his left one pointed west, whilst he himself faced north or south, as the case might be.

For seven days the party travelled in a northeasterly direction, Sergeant Johnson spending most of the time on his back on the waggon, Corporal Merton tramping immediately behind, whilst Privates Hay and Hare followed at any distance ranging between a hundred yards and half a mile.

The party was not a cheery one; it might have travelled for yet another day, or even more, had not the Sergeant dropped his looking glass off the tail end of the waggon. He was devoted to his big red beard. While lying on the waggon he spent his time fondling and trimming this beard, smearing vaseline on it and admiring it in his little lead-framed looking glass.

When, therefore, he dropped his glass, he said: "Damn," and then, more loudly, "This is Likonga; outspan, Jacob!"

The driver shouted "Ah, now!" to the oxen, and the outfit came to a halt.

As a camping place, the spot so casually chosen was not a bad one. There was wood and there was water, good grazing for the cattle, and obviously some game about. Moreover, there were some granite boulders on the left, set round in the form of a rude circle. Under the Sergeant's direction all were soon roughly housed. The cattle had been made secure at night by a skilful reinforcement of the circle of boulders, here a thorn bush and there a few poles. Patrol tents, protected by a straggling fence, satisfied the Sergeant and his men. Jacob spent the day in the lee of his waggon and the night under it. "Nine-thirty" slept on the other side of the cattle kraal, under the propped-up roof of an abandoned native hut; during the day he herded the cattle. The making of this very primitive out-station occupied less than a couple of days, and then the question, "What the devil shall we do now?" fell upon the party like a blight.

But, as is so often the case, the devil decided.

All had turned in for the night. The Sergeant had taken a last look at his beard. Corporal Merton had read something of Kipling's. Private Hay, after a long-winded argument with Private Hare, in which neither seemed to gain advantage, had told his adversary to go to hell. Private Hare had found satisfaction in saying, "Ditto, brother." Jacob had retired under his waggon, and, like most natives, fell asleep immediately, with his head well covered by his blanket.

The leader with the silly name, alone of all the party, remained awake in his solitude on the other side of the cattle kraal. His evening meal of maize porridge was bubbling in his small cooking pot, perched on a handful of embers. He was playing a minute native "piano," a trumpery, tinkling thing, made of half a gourd, a strip of hard wood, with a few tongues of metal affixed to it.

The tinkle, tinkle, tink, tink; tinkle, tinkle, tink, tink, sounded very plaintive and lonely in Africa's wide expanse. The boy was singing, too—if his wail could be called singing.

The crocodile,
Floating near the bank,
Sleeps in the river.
Tinkle, tinkle, tink, tink.
The fish,
Floating on the water,
Sleeps in the river.
Tinkle, tinkle, tink, tink.
The hippopotamus,
Floating in mid-stream,
Sleeps in the river.
Tinkle, tinkle,...