Last Notch came into view against a sky of dull velvet as they
breasted the last rise. The indescribable homely smell of a wood-fire
greeted the nostrils with the force of a spoken welcome. They could
hear the gabble of the Kafirs at their supper and the noise of their
shrill, empty laughter.

"That's home," said Mills, breaking a long silence.

"Yais," murmured the Frenchman; "'ome, eh? Yais. Ver' naice."

"You may say what you like," continued the trader aggressively. "Home
is something. Though never so 'umble, ye know, there's no place like
home."

"Tha's all right," assented the other gaily. "I know a man name'
Albert Smith, an' 'e sing that in the jail at Beira. Sing all the
night till I stop 'im with a broom. Yais."

Mills grunted, and they entered the skoff kia--the largest of the
huts, sacred to the uses of a dining-room. It contained two canvas
chairs, a camp table, a variety of boxes to sit upon, and some
picture-paper illustration on the mud wall. A candle in a bottle
illuminated it, and a bird in the thatch overhead twittered volubly
at their presence. Some tattered books lay in the corner.

They washed in the open air, sluicing themselves from buckets, and
dressed again in clean dungarees in another hut.

"Skoff (food) 'll be ready by now," said Mills; "but I think a
gargle's the first thing. You'll have whisky, or gin?"