When I had still farther regained my faculties, I set to work to make my timely benefactor comprehend that I wanted to get back to my waggon. I used the word “koloi” to designate the vehicle. It was not a Sechuana word, but had been very generally adopted, and the man grinned intelligently as he replied, “Pata-pata?” His answer was an inquiry whether I wanted the waggon-road, for which pata-pata is a corrupt Dutch expression. I nodded assent, and he pointed cheerily to the north-east; then lifting me up, he assisted me to move on; he was considerably shorter than I was, and taking my gun with his own three assegais over his left shoulder, he made me walk with my arm over his right. Hope gave new vigour to my steps, and by being allowed to rest now and then, I succeeded in getting along.
We reached the road only as the sun had set angrily in the west; in the east the sky was lowering, and occasional flashes of lightning were followed at some interval by the rumblings of thunder. The air became much cooler, and I shivered in the evening breeze, gentle as it was; I had been in a profuse perspiration, and my clammy shirt was now clinging to my skin; I had left my coat in the waggon. After walking on wearily for another half-hour, I pleaded to be allowed to sit down for a little while; but the Masarwa would not hear of it, and after following the road a little longer he made a sudden bend into the woods. At first I hesitated about accompanying him, but pointing to his mouth
