Hair-Breadth Escapes: The Adventures of Three Boys in South AfricaAdams, H. C. (Henry Cadwallader)
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Hair-Breadth Escapes: The Adventures of Three Boys in South Africa
Adams, H. C. (Henry Cadwallader)
Adventure stories; Boys -- Juvenile fiction; Hunting -- Juvenile fiction; South Africa -- Juvenile fiction
On the following morning accordingly they resumed their route. Each of
them carried some of the flesh of the kids, a dozen medlars, and a
melon. It was found that the strength of the Hottentot was now so far
restored that he could keep up with the usual pace at which the others
walked, and only required a rest of half an hour or so, every two or
three miles. They accomplished about a dozen miles that day; and at
nightfall had reached a wide stony plain, covered here and there with
patches of grass, but entirely destitute of shrub or tree. Omatoko
pointed out a place where a deep projecting slab of rock, resting on two
enormous stones, and bearing a rude resemblance to a giant's
chimney-piece, afforded as convenient a shelter for the night as might
be desired. It would effectually protect the party from rain and wind,
nor was there the least fear of wild animals, as none were ever known to
come within two or three miles of the spot, there being neither
pasturage nor water.
"No water," repeated Frank, "that's rather a doubtful advantage, isn't
it? What are we to drink, I wonder?"
The Hottentot only grinned in reply; and disengaging the knife which
always hung at Nick's girdle, began grubbing in the ground among the
stones. In a few minutes he dug up several round, or rather spherical
roots, two or three feet in circumference. These he cut open with the
knife, displaying the inside, which had a white appearance, and was soft
and pulpy. The boys had no sooner applied this to their lips than they
broke out into exclamations of delight. "That's your sort," exclaimed
Nick; "it's like a delicious melon, only it's twice as refreshing."
"Omatoko, you're a trump," cried Frank. "You'd make a fortune, if you
could only sell these in Covent Garden market. Nobody that could get
them would ever drink water again."
"What are they called, Charles," asked Warley. "Are they to be met with
elsewhere in South Africa, or only here?"
"The root is called the `markwhae,' I believe," answered the doctor,
"and it is to be found in almost every neighbourhood where there is a
want of water. It is another of those wonderful provisions of Divine
Wisdom for the wants of its creatures, with which this land abounds. In
some parts, such of the wild animals as are herbivorous, are continually
digging up and devouring these roots. Vangelt told me that he once came
upon a tribe of Hottentots which subsisted entirely without water, the
succulent plants supplying even the cattle with sufficient liquid."
"Well, that is very wonderful," said Frank. "I declare I feel more
refreshed by that one root, than if I had drunk a pailful of water. Are
there any more of these roots on the way to your village, Omatoko?"
"Omatoko's village, one, two days away. No roots, plenty water,"
returned the Hottentot. "Well, that will do as well, I suppose. But
this is a thing worth knowing, if one should find one's self in a place
where there is no water."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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