in the dust, and an old Kaffir squatted by the wall.

My few belongings were soon lifted from the Cape-cart, and
I entered the shop. It was the ordinary pattern of up-country
store - a bar in one corner with an array of bottles, and all
round the walls tins of canned food and the odds and ends of
trade. The place was empty, and a cloud of flies buzzed over
the sugar cask.

Two doors opened at the back, and I chose the one to the
right. I found myself in a kind of kitchen with a bed in one
corner, and a litter of dirty plates on the table. On the bed lay
a man, snoring heavily. I went close to him, and found an old
fellow with a bald head, clothed only in a shirt and trousers.
His face was red and swollen, and his breath came in heavy
grunts. A smell of bad whisky hung over everything. I had no
doubt that this was Mr Peter Japp, my senior in the store. One
reason for the indifferent trade at Blaauwildebeestefontein was
very clear to me: the storekeeper was a sot.

I went back to the shop and tried the other door. It was a
bedroom too, but clean and pleasant. A little native girl -
Zeeta, I found they called her - was busy tidying it up, and
when I entered she dropped me a curtsy. 'This is your room,
Baas,' she said in very good English in reply to my question.
The child had been well trained somewhere, for there was a
cracked dish full of oleander blossom on the drawers'-head,
and the pillow-slips on the bed were as clean as I could wish.
She brought me water to wash, and a cup of strong tea, while
I carried my baggage indoors and paid the driver of the cart.