A hard day’s trek again and we left the river, climbed up a sandy incline between hills of black hornblende schist where faint wheel-marks showed that we were on an old beaten track, and cutting across country, at about ten at night we again came to the river at Zendling’s Drift. And the crowing of a cock, and the barking of a dog from the other bank, were as music in our ears, for the loneliness of this deserted land was beginning to tell upon us. Scarce was our camp fire blazing when we heard a great shouting and splashing in the river below, and three or four Hottentots came across to find out who we were. They were working for the German police, who had a post on the further bank. The splashing and shouting is always done by these Hottentots when crossing the river at night--for fear of the “Groot Slang.” They have no boats, but at various places along the banks long dry logs may be seen lying with a peg driven in on one side. These poles they use to help them in crossing, holding the peg and pushing this primitive raft before them. CHAPTER X ZENDLING’S DRIFT--JACKAL’S BERG--THE RESULT OF TOO MUCH WHYMPER--HUGE NUGGET OF NATIVE COPPER--A DIFFICULT PASS--KUBOOS--DEGENERATE NATIVES--BACK TO PORT NOLLOTH. Zendling’s (Missionary’s) Drift received its name from the fact that the first missionaries to enter Damaraland crossed the Orange at this spot. There is no kind of settlement on the English side, and at the time of this first visit of mine the Germans had not commenced building the substantial police post that now commands the drift, their few police being encamped among the trees some distance from the river. The whole river, by the by, has always belonged to the British, whose territory extends 100 yards above high-water mark on the northern bank. Having seen no other white men since we left Port Nolloth, and feeling sociable, Ransson and I swam the river with an idea of paying the Germans a visit, but I felt shy when I got out of the water, and sat down well within British territory. Ransson, however, had brought over clean pyjamas in a bundle on his head, and clad in these he coolly sauntered off to the camp, where, I believe, they turned out the guard and signalled to Warmbad for reinforcements. He turned up later with some nice biltong, and for the rest of the day did nothing but brag about the beer and schnapps he had been regaled with. He also most considerately breathed upon me now and then, and altogether I did not come off so badly. The country near Zendling’s Drift is open and sandy. Upstream and some distance away from the river there are some extraordinary river-terraces of great height, on the flat surfaces of which sun, wind, and sand have combined to polish the beautifully coloured pebbles of ironstone, jasper, agate, chalcedony, and other stones in the most wonderful manner.