When we arrived at this conclusion we were absolutely at the end of our stores, a small tin of Symington’s Pea Flour, a pot of jam, and two tins of sardines being all that was left of the edibles. However, there were rope, tools, pots, and various gear, and Gert left me to go back to the Hottentots up the river, to bring back the pack-cow that had brought us there. He brought it back a day or two later with the owner, who was surly when he found our tobacco and coffee were finished, and who wanted to clear off again and leave us to hump the things ourselves. However, he was “persuaded” not to do so, our things were packed on the cow, and we started our long walk back. My boots were literally in shreds, and my feet badly cut and bleeding, and as nearly the whole of the journey was over sharp rocks, I was in a terrible state by the time I got to “Zee-coe-stuk,” where the Hottentots’ encampment was. These people were now insolent to a degree; they demanded tobacco and coffee, and would not believe we had none. Gert showed them our kit, and the cow was unpacked and led away to rest and feed, but they were still derisive, and as there were a round dozen of them, and we were two, it looked as though there might be trouble. We were on a high, well-wooded bank, above a very deep part of the river, and Gert (who of course spoke Hottentot) said that they were openly discussing rushing us, and throwing us into the turbulent, rushing torrent. On the opposite bank, on the lower slopes of the mountain, which came almost sheer into the water, were a troop of big baboons, and this gave me an idea which probably saved bloodshed.