It was a very old man, bent almost double, and clad in a ragged shirt and a pair of foul khaki trousers.
He carried an iron pot, and a few belongings were tied up in a dirty handkerchief.

He must have been a dacha[1] smoker, for he coughed hideously, twisting his body with the paroxysms.

I had seen the type before--the old broken-down native who had no kin to support him, and no tribe to shelter him.

They wander about the roads, cooking their wretched meals by their little fires, till one morning they are found stiff under a bush.
The native gave me a good-day in Kaffir, then begged for tobacco or a handful of mealie-meal.
I asked him where he came from.
'From the west, Inkoos,' he said, 'and before that from the south.

It is a sore road for old bones.' I went into the store to fetch some meal, and when I came out he had shuffled close to the door.