“I have now a new driver, my old one having refused to go with me after my first repulse by the Makalakas. My present man is a huge creature, civil enough, but too fond of brandy. He one evening made a raid when I was absent, and broke open some of my boxes, not leaving a single bottle of brandy in my possession, but how many bottles I had I have no idea. He shared the spoils with his friends, and they were at it all night. Next day I cross-examined him closely, and got a confession out of him. I then fined him £5, and reduced his wages from £4 a month to £3. He got off cheap, as it is common in such cases to tie the offender up and whip him. The whole race of waggon-drivers, with scarcely an exception, are worthless wretches--dissipated, lazy, impudent, and dishonest. It really seems that civilization has no other effect upon Kafirs than to make them worse than they naturally are. “I must now wind up this terrible letter. I know it is far too long, but it is too late now to obviate that defect.” Another of Frank Oates’s letters, written home to one of his brothers about this time, adds yet some further particulars of his late experiences. He says:-- “TATI, _October 16th, 1874_. “The mail is in, and with it a letter from you, appreciated as usual, which I need not say is not a little. It is dated July 3d. I am sorry you seem to doubt my getting your letters. In my letter to the Mater I mention the hoard of letters, containing a complete and connected history of home affairs, which met my delighted eyes when I returned here from my third attempt to reach the Zambesi, of which I have given her an account. The road between here and Bamangwato is all but closed from the drought now, as it is the end of the dry season. The waggons that brought this mail in were delayed, and suffered considerably. Several of the oxen died, and one waggon is still in the veldt at the Gokwe River, where there is a little water, and which is the half-way house between Mungwato and here. In distance it is more than half way, but it is always a stopping-place, on either side of which stretches a parched-up country. On the first day of this month I began a letter to the Mater, expecting it would be taken on in a day or two. However, the waggons that were to take it did not set off, preferring to wait for rain, so the letter has been lying unfinished. Now, however, another arrives from you, and sets me off into the writing vein. Moreover, I am expecting very shortly to start into the veldt for a month or two, which means two months, of course, before I fairly set off home. I have in the meantime been collecting birds here, and reflecting on the vanity of human ambition. It may surprise you that I don’t hurry home, now that the Zambesi affair is over. It is certainly not that I don’t long to see all the familiar faces once more, and feast my eyes with English scenery....[55]