Eventually we emerged from these giant dunes on to a fairly wide, level plain known as Saulstraat, and here by the water-pits found six fine shady thorn-trees that had been planted in a line by some thoughtful old pioneer of the desert; and as we had not seen anything bigger than a bush for some days past, it was most natural that we should seek their shade for our midday outspan. G. smoothed away a place from the fallen thorns and threw himself down, whilst I--much to his surprise--climbed into the cart and prepared to take my siesta in its very cramped space. “Why don’t you come down here?” asked G. I told him there might be insects. “Insects!” he said, in high disdain, “insects! Well, I always thought you were a crank, but that settles it! Here we’ve been roasting for days till we smell like grilled steak, and when you get the chance of a bit of comfort in the shade of nice trees, you’re afraid of insects! Insects! Why, there aren’t any, and if there were they wouldn’t keep me from this! Insects!” “Be warned in time,” I said solemnly. “These are no common insects.” “Oh, shut up,” he snorted; “you and your old yarns! I’m going to sleep.” And he did; but not for long. By my watch it took just four and a half minutes before he began to squirm a bit; that meant the first sam-pan had started prospecting. Soon others evidently put their pegs in, and in seven and a half minutes the big rush came. I had always admired, indeed almost reverenced, G.’s ability to sleep at any time, anywhere, and under any conditions, but the way he withstood the combined onslaught of that army corps of sam-pans for fully another three minutes was an eye-opener as to what he could do. At last a big one at work on his nose must have struck it rich, for G. ceased his snores and his squirming, and still half asleep struck himself a violent blow right where the sam-pan was working. He let off a violent yell, and for the next few minutes his demeanour lacked dignity and repose. In the middle of his bad language I told him so, also that it was a pity to forget himself for the sake of a few insects. “Insects!” he snorted. “You call these blamed calamities insects, do you? Right-oh, wait a bit, my son--I’ll pay you for this.”