His partner takes no notice of the passing ill-humour save for a light laugh, as he returns to his former occupation, the superintending and part assisting at, a certain cooking process under the shade of a tree, effected by a native boy and now nearly completed. A tent and a small waggon supply the residential quarters, the latter for the "boys," who turn in on the ground underneath it--the former for their masters. A "scherm" of chopped boughs encloses the camp, and within this the donkeys are safeguarded at night: a case of learning wisdom by experience, for already two of these useful little animals have fallen a prey to lions through being left thus unprotected. Just outside this is a partially sunken shaft, surmounted by a rude windlass. "What have we got for `scoff,' Jack?" says Justin Spence, yawning lazily as he withdraws his dripping hands from the calabash wash-basin, and saunters across to the scene of culinary operations. "Oh, Lord!" giving a sniff or two as a vile and carrion-like effluvium strikes upon his nostrils. "There's one of those beastly stink-ants around somewhere. Here, Sixpence!" calling to one of a trio of Mashuna boys lounging beneath the shade of the waggon aforesaid. "_Hamba petula_ stink-ant-- what the deuce is the word, Jack? _'Iye_, yes, that's it _Bulal'iye_. Comprenny? Well, clear then. _Hamba_. Scoot." A splutter of bass laughter went up from the natives at this lucid direction, which, however, the other man soon made clear. "Oh, never mind about the stink-ant," he said. "Why, man, it's all in the day's work. You must get used to these little trifles, or you'll never do any good at prospecting." "Oh, damn prospecting! I hate it," returned Justin, stretching his graceful length upon the ground. "Ladle out the scoff and let's fall to. I want to have another smoke." "Oh, Lucky Jim! How I envy him--" resumed Jack Skelsey, while engaged in the above occupation. "So do I, Jack, or anybody else to whom that word `lucky' can be said to apply--and I'm afraid whoever that is it'll never be us." "You never can tell, old man. Luck generally strikes a chap when least expected." "Then now's the time for it to strike me; right now, Jack." "Oh, I don't know we've much to grouse about, Spence. It's beastly hot up here, and we're sweating our souls out all for nothing. But after all, it's better than being stuck away all one's life in a musty old office, sometimes not even seeing the blessed light of day for a week at a time, if it happens to be foggy--a miserable jet of gas the only substitute for yonder jolly old sun. Rather! I've tried it and you haven't. See?"