His nose was much
sharper than is usual among these races, and he had a queer habit of
holding his head sideways like a bird when he spoke, which, in
addition to the humour that lurked in his eye, gave him a most comical
appearance. Another strange thing about him was that he had a single
white lock of hair among his black wool. At last I spoke to him:
"Indaba-zimbi, my friend," I said, "you may be a good witch-doctor, but
you are certainly a fool. It is no good beckoning at the blue sky while
your enemy is getting a start with the storm."
"You may be clever, but don't think you know everything, white man," the
old fellow answered, in a high, cracked voice, and with something like a
grin.
"They call you Iron-tongue," I went on; "you had better use it, or the
Storm Devil won't hear you."
"The fire from above runs down iron," he answered, "so I keep my tongue
quiet. Oh, yes, let him curse away, I'll put him out presently. Look
now, white man."
I looked, and in the eastern sky there grew a cloud. At first it was
small, though very black, but it gathered with extraordinary rapidity.
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