I have referred to Bolo, an old Kaffir medicine man, who, on his professional tour round the country, always remained a day or two with Abe Pike, in his way, a great doctor with a valuable fund of information about the medicinal properties of plants and roots. Bolo turned up in the evening, fresh from a beer dance, and the manner of his coming was that of a ravenous lion. He charged down upon the house in the dusk, with his necklet bones rattling, the horsehair mane flying, and the bellow of his deep voice setting the dogs off into a fury of barking, up he came--leaping, bounding, hurling himself forward with in-creditable swiftness, whirling his knobbed kerrie, his eyes glaring and his features twitching, the dogs snapping around him--right up to the door, as if he meant to burst in and brain everyone he met. Then he stopped, smiled in a wide vacuous way, took snuff, and squatted down, while the dogs as suddenly ceased their clamour and walked sheepishly away. "Well, you clatterin' ole heathen," said Abe, seating himself on the door-step, and shaving slices of tobacco against the ball of his thumb; "what mischief have you been up to?" "Yoh," said Bolo, resting his long arms on his knees; "I have heard tales of the black tiger and the white man's fear. But my medicine has sent the black evil away back again to the big kloof." "To the kloof on my farm?" "Eweh! Why not? The white man is a great medicine man. Has he not a familiar in the old baboon--who is the most cunning of familiars?" "That's so," said Abe gravely; "the baboon is cunnin', but he don't know everything. Did I ever tell you the yarn o' the baboon an' the tortoise?" "No. Fire away, Uncle." He hitched himself up against the door-post and related his story in Kaffir for Bolo's benefit, though I prefer to render it in English. "The ole skelpot, one day hunting aroun' nosed out a store o' yearth nuts. He raked the yearth over an' flatten' it down, an' he jes' crawl aroun' till the dry weather sot in, when he took'd up his quarters near the hidden store. One day he meet ole man baboon searching fer grubs. `Things is mighty dry,' says the baboon. `Might be drier,' says the skelpot. `Food is skerce,' says the baboon. `Might be skercer,' says the skelpot. `Ho! ho!' says the baboon, mighty sharp, `you don't seem to be troubled in your shell. There's a shine on your shell, ole man skelpot,' he says. `Shell shine when the stummick don't pine,' says the skelpot." "Er-umh!" grunted Bolo. "`Shell shine when the stummick don't pine,' said the skelpot. `Baugh,' says the baboon, `p'raps you got some food, skelpot,' says the baboon. `I'm gwine to sleep,' says the skelpot, an' he drew his head into his house, so the baboon couldn't ask him any more questions." "Er-umh!" said Bolo, politely signifying his sustained interest.