"All is clear, my father," he said in a matter-of-fact voice. "The
white wanderer, Dogeetah, is not dead. He lives, but he is sick.
Something is the matter with one of his legs so that he cannot walk.
Perhaps a bone is broken or some beast has bitten him. He lies in a
hut such as Kaffirs make, only this hut has a verandah round it like
your stoep, and there are drawings on the wall. The hut is a long way
off, I don't know where."
"Is that all?" I asked, for he paused.
"No, not all. Dogeetah is recovering. He will join us in that country
whither we journey, at a time of trouble. That is all, and the fee is
half-a-crown."
"You mean one shilling," I suggested.
"No, my father Macumazana. One shilling for simple magic such as
foretelling the fate of common black people. Half-a-crown for very
difficult magic that has to do with white people, magic of which only
great doctors, like me, Mavovo, are the masters."
I gave him the half-crown and said:
"Look here, friend Mavovo, I believe in you as a fighter and a hunter,
but as a magician I think you are a humbug.
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