I got food and drink from the Greeks who sell all things at a price, and the engine trotted us a couple of miles up the line to a bay of drifted sand and a plank-platform half buried in sand not a hundred yards from the edge of the surf. Moulded dunes, whiter than any snow, rolled far inland up a brown and purple valley of splintered rocks and dry scrub. A crowd of Malays hauled at a net beside two blue and green boats on the beach; a picnic party danced and shouted barefoot where a tiny river trickled across the flat, and a circle of dry hills, whose feet were set in sands of silver, locked us in against a seven-coloured sea. At either horn of the bay the railway line, cut just above high water-mark, ran round a shoulder of piled rocks, and disappeared. “You see there’s always a breeze here,” said Hooper, opening the door as the engine left us in the siding on the sand, and the strong south-easter buffeting under Elsie’s Peak dusted sand into our tickey beer. Presently he sat down to a file full of spiked documents. He had returned from a long trip up-country, where he had been reporting on damaged rolling-stock, as far away as Rhodesia. The weight of the bland wind on my eyelids; the song of it under the car roof, and high up among the rocks; the drift of fine grains chasing each other musically ashore; the tramp of the surf; the voices of the picnickers; the rustle of Hooper’s file, and the presence of the assured sun, joined with the beer to cast me into magical slumber. The hills of False Bay were just dissolving into those of fairyland when I heard footsteps on the sand outside, and the clink of our couplings. “Stop that!” snapped Hooper, without raising his head from his work. “It’s those dirty little Malay boys, you see: they’re always playing with the trucks….” “Don’t be hard on ’em. The railway’s a general refuge in Africa,” I replied. “’Tis—up-country at any rate. That reminds me,” he felt in his waistcoat-pocket, “I’ve got a curiosity for you from Wankies—beyond Buluwayo. It’s more of a souvenir perhaps than——” “The old hotel’s inhabited,” cried a voice. “White men from the language. Marines to the front! Come on, Pritch. Here’s your Belmont. Wha—i—i!” The last word dragged like a rope as Mr. Pyecroft ran round to the open door, and stood looking up into my face. Behind him an enormous Sergeant of Marines trailed a stalk of dried seaweed, and dusted the sand nervously from his fingers. “What are you doing here?” I asked. “I thought the _Hierophant_ was down the coast?” “We came in last Tuesday—from Tristan D’Acunha—for overhaul, and we shall be in dockyard ’ands for two months, with boiler-seatings.” “Come and sit down,” Hooper put away the file. “This is Mr. Hooper of the Railway,” I exclaimed, as Pyecroft turned to haul up the black-moustached sergeant.