“I have had a row with some rascally Kafirs here in this wise. Last year a party of unfortunate Bushmen--men, women, and children--were killed by a party of Matabele. The Bushmen were supposed to have been hunting where they had no right, or committing some other offence--probably an imaginary one. Hearing of this, I thought if I could find the place I could take a sack and fill it with bones, and I instituted inquiries accordingly as to the locality, offering a blanket to any Kafir who would take me to the spot. A Dutchman, who lives here, when he is not away with his wife and daughters in his waggon on a hunting expedition, offered to act as my guide, and it was settled that I should give him £5 for doing so. He, however, changed his mind about going, but told me he had got one of the Matabele who killed the Bushmen to go with me in his stead. This fellow was working here at the mine, but when he was brought to me he also refused to go, evidently thinking I had some ulterior object in wanting to go to the place--perhaps to get him punished. These people, too, are very superstitious about going to places where others have been killed. “This occurred when I was last here, but on my return I was waited on by another coloured gentleman, who said he too had helped to kill the Bushmen (and a ferocious beast he looked)--What business was it of _mine_ to visit the bones? All this, of course, arose from the Dutchman having made it known that I wanted the bones. The ferocious-looking Kafir further went on to say that he should complain of my conduct to the king, the only way to avoid which catastrophe being to give him something out of my waggon, to bribe his silence. Moreover, he hinted that if I did not comply, he should not stick at helping himself, and went through a pantomime with his knob-kerry (a stick with a round knob at one end, with which Kafirs knock their enemies on the head), illustrating what he would do to _me_. All this was bounce, though no doubt he would have liked to do it had he dared, and he thought to frighten me. My pusillanimous Dutchman at once begged me to give the fellow something. This I stoutly refused, not only as a disgraceful proceeding on my part, but as an act of bad policy. I knew better than to show him I was afraid of him, and I knew the king was not likely to go against me, even if the worst came to the worst. There were two other Kafirs with this one, also from the mine, to back him up. Finding the Dutchman disposed to be friendly with them, the spokesman asked him for a cigar, seeing us smoking, and the Dutchman wanted me to comply, as a preliminary to talking the matter over. All I said, however, to the Kafir was a word or two of his own language, meaning ‘Go away, you scoundrel.’