But the musician! He was away ahead of the gaudiest buck-nigger I had ever seen! On his head was a German uniform “smasher” hat, about three sizes too large for him, and covered with sweeping ostrich plumes, a tight-waisted, wide-skirted uniform coat was left open to show what had once been a very _décolleté_ white waistcoat, which in turn was finished off with a broad athlete’s belt of red, white, and black. Then his costume ended till you came to his feet, on which he wore a brand-new pair of glaring yellow elastic-sided boots, with spurs! Oh! he was a peach, and he knew it. His concertina was also German, spangled beyond belief, and quite new. He only used about three notes of the considerable number there appeared to be on it, but the Guards’ Drum Major, Sarasate, Paderewski, and several other virtuosi rolled into one could not have approached that buck-nigger for style. After a while we got him to stop his music and talk. He spoke a little alleged English and Dutch, and several German cuss-words, and led us to understand that he had been working in German South-West some months, and had now decided to retire and get married. We wondered where the lady was, and gave him some _tabaki_ and wished him luck, and he cleared off. But we had scarcely got to sleep when that infernal concertina started again, and there was “His Nibs” back again, with the two “coryphées” capering away for all they were worth, and evidently prepared to keep it up all night. The more _tabaki_ I gave them, the more energetic they became; the more I swore, the more they seemed to think I appreciated their efforts; and at last I had to turn out of my blankets and go for them with a sjambok. Then only did they quit, and I turned in again. But I had got a big thorn in my foot, and when I had got that out a scorpion got into my bed, and objected to my being there. Altogether, a nice, quiet, idyllic night by the river. In the morning, the musician turned up with a tin full of goat’s milk, and informed me that he knew a magnificent copper-mine close at hand, and wanted us to pay him for showing it. As he pointed in the direction we were going, we took him along, and, as I expected, he led us to an outcrop that we had pegged on our previous visit. He then danced about six steps, played a pæan of joy on his infernal concertina, grinned from ear to ear, and held out his hand. “’Undred pounds,” said he. “_Duizand pond, Zwanzig mark!_” He got it. We gave him a plug of tobacco, and a little tea for his bride, and he stood on a peak and played us out of sight. He was certainly the most cheerful and original Christy Minstrel I ever met in a wild state, and I remember him with gratitude.