CHAPTER IV.
THE NIGER HUT
It stands upon the grassy slope,
A ruin, brown and lone;
The door swings on its hinge of rope
With strange and dismal tone,
Whene’er the wandering winds that pass,
Bear with them, o’er the thistled grass,
The darksome forest’s moan.
It was indeed a sorry place to spend a night, but I was thankful to get there! We turned the horses loose, and proceeded to light a fire: the chimney would not draw—not, indeed, to be wondered at, for after all it was only a hole, and all the smoke came inside. Then we found there was no tea, that being in one of the abandoned sacks. All we could do was to mix some cream and hot water, and this, with a hunch of bread and butter, constituted our supper. I took the wet wrappings off the cake: it was a ruin, reduced to a mere pudding—and we left it for the next party of rabbiters. At first we thought of Transome riding back for help, but it was now 10 p.m. and he was tired out, and we were both depressed over this tragic ending to a perfect day. So we decided that he should go early next morning, and then turned our thoughts to making ourselves as comfortable as might be for the night.
