The lady was to be found (vaguely speaking) on a young farm to the north--a budding farm, whose general direction was expansively indicated to me by a wave of the arm, with South African uncertainty.
I bought a pony at Salisbury--a pretty little seasoned sorrel mare--and set out to find Hilda.

My way lay over a brand-new road, or what passes for a road in South Africa--very soft and lumpy, like an English cart-track.

I am a fair cross-country rider in our own Midlands, but I never rode a more tedious journey than that one.

I had crawled several miles under a blazing sun along the shadeless new track, on my African pony, when, to my surprise I saw, of all sights in the world, a bicycle coming towards me.
I could hardly believe my eyes.

Civilisation indeed! A bicycle in these remotest wilds of Africa! I had been picking my way for some hours through a desolate plateau--the high veldt--about five thousand feet above the sea level, and entirely treeless.