Chapter 1

           IreturnedfromtheCityaboutthreeo’clockonthatMayafternoonprettywelldisgustedwithlife.IhadbeenthreemonthsintheOldCountry,andwasfedupwithit.IfanyonehadtoldmeayearagothatIwouldhavebeenfeelinglikethatIshouldhavelaughedathim;buttherewasthefact.Theweathermademeliverish,thetalkoftheordinaryEnglishmanmademesick.Icouldn’tgetenoughexercise,andtheamusementsofLondonseemedasflatassoda-waterthathasbeenstandinginthesun.“RichardHannay,”Ikepttellingmyself,“youhavegotintothewrongditch,myfriend,andyouhadbetterclimbout.”

           ItmademebitemylipstothinkoftheplansIhadbeenbuildingupthoselastyearsinBuluwayo.Ihadgotmypile—notoneofthebigones,butgoodenoughforme;andIhadfiguredoutallkindsofwaysofenjoyingmyself.MyfatherhadbroughtmeoutfromScotlandattheageofsix,andIhadneverbeenhomesince;soEnglandwasasortofArabianNightstome,andIcountedonstoppingtherefortherestofmydays.

           ButfromthefirstIwasdisappointedwithit.InaboutaweekIwastiredofseeingsights,andinlessthanamonthIhadhadenoughofrestaurantsandtheatresandrace-meetings.Ihadnorealpaltogoaboutwith,whichprobablyexplainsthings.Plentyofpeopleinvitedmetotheirhouses,buttheydidn’tseemmuchinterestedinme.TheywouldflingmeaquestionortwoaboutSouthAfrica,andthengetontotheirownaffairs.