"Not a doubt about it. You see, the Zulus didn't originally belong where they now are. They came down from the north, somewhere about where we are now, I shouldn't wonder. They had another custom, too, which was Mohammedan, as most of the other tribes have at the present day, but Tshaka stopped it among them. And I have a theory that the head-ring is a survival of the turban." "That might be. But, I say, Haviland, you seem to have got their lingo all right. Were you much in the country?" "A good bit. I haven't got it by any means all right, though I know a great number of words, but my grammar's of the shakiest. I often set them roaring with laughter over some absurd mistake; and I don't even know what it is myself. By the way, there was a chap at school with me--a Zulu from Zululand. He conceived a sort, of attachment for me because I smacked a fellow's head for bullying him when he first came, and he was a useful chap too; first-rate at egg-hunting, and we got into all sorts of rows together. The other fellows used to call him `Haviland's Chum,' to rag me, you know; but I didn't mind it. Well, he taught me some of his lingo, and made me want to see his country." "I wonder they took a black chap in an English school," said Oakley. "So did I. So did most of us. But he was put there by a missionary, and old Bowen was nuts on the missionary business." "Old Bowen? Was that at Saint Kirwin's, then?" "Yes. Why, were you ever there?" "No. By the way, what sort of a chap was old Bowen?" "A regular old Tartar. I hated him like poison the last part of the time I was there; but right at the end--at the time I lost my poor old dad--he was awfully decent. He's a good chap at bottom, is Nick--a real good chap." "It's extraordinary how small the world is," said Oakley. "The old chap happens to be an uncle of mine, on the maternal side, and I own I like him better in that capacity than I should as a headmaster; but, as you say, he's a real good chap at bottom." "What a rum thing!" declared Haviland. "Yes, as you say, the world is small indeed. Yet when I was in Zululand, I tried to find out about Cetchy--we called him that at Saint Kirwin's, after Cetywayo of course, his real name was Mpukuza--but could simply hear nothing whatever about him. The world wasn't small in that instance. Hallo! There's something up over yonder." There was. Excitement had risen and spread among the bearers, causing them to spring up and peer cautiously forth, notwithstanding that the heat was sweltering, and the hour was that of rest. The sentry on that side had passed the word that people were approaching the camp.