"Oh, draw it mild, Ames," retorted the police officer, ill-humouredly. "It doesn't follow that because a fellow can patter by the hour to a lot of niggers that he knows everything. I say, old chap, why don't you chip in for some of old Madula's daughters--marry 'em, don't you know? He has some spanking fine ones, anyway." The tone was ill-tempered and sneering to the last degree. Inglefield could be bumptious and quarrelsome at times, but he had a poor life of it, with a detestable wife, and an appointment of no great emolument, nor holding out any particular prospect of advancement. All of which bearing in mind, John Ames controlled his not unnatural resentment, and answered equably:-- "Because I hope to make a better thing of life, Inglefield. But that sort of thing is rather apt to stick to a man, and crop up just when least convenient. I'm no prig or puritan, so putting it on that ground alone, it's better not touched." "Oh, all right, old chap; only don't be so beastly satirical. I can't help grousing like the devil at times when I think how I'm stuck away here in this infernal God-forsaken hole. Wish I could fall into a bunk at Bulawayo or Salisbury or anywhere. Even Crosse here has a better time of it going around sniffing out rinderpest." "Don't know about that," said the cattle inspector. "I'll swap you bunks, anyway, Inglefield." "Wish we could, that's all," replied the police officer, who was in a decidedly "grousy" vein, as he owned himself, half petulantly, half laughingly, when presently the conical huts of Sikumbutana hove in sight over the brow of the rise. "Well, now, Ames, you'll roll up to `skoff' at seven, won't you, unless you'll change your mind and come in now?" "I'll roll up all right. But not now, I've got some work on hand, and it's early yet." "Very well. Seven, then. Don't go sending over some tinpot excuse, you unreliable beggar." "No; I'll be there. So long. So long, Crosse." And he turned his horse's head into the track that led to his own compound. "Rum chap that fellow Ames," said Inglefield, when he and the cattle inspector were alone together. "He's a rattling good chap at bottom, and we are really great pals, but we fight like the devil whenever we have to do with each other officially." "How's that?" said Crosse, a quiet, self-contained man, with a large sandy beard and steady, reliable eyes. "Oh, I don't know. He's so beastly officious--he calls it conscientious. Always prating about `conscientious discharge of his duties'--`can't conscientiously do it'--and so on. You know. Now, only the other day--or, rather, just before he went on leave--he must needs get my pet sergeant reduced--a fellow worth his weight in gold to me as a hunter. Now, of course, the chap has turned sulky, and swears he's no good--can't tell where game is or is likely to be, or anything." "So. How did he get him reduced?"