"Inez Robertson," I said to myself, "that's a queer combination. English
father and Portuguese mother, I suppose. But what can an Englishman be
doing in a place like this? If it had been a trek-Boer I should not have
been surprised." Then I began to give directions about out-spanning.

We had just got the oxen out of the yokes, when a big, raw-boned,
red-bearded, blue-eyed, roughly-clad man of about fifty years of age
appeared from the house, yawning. I threw my eye over him as he advanced
with a peculiar rolling gait, and formed certain conclusions. A drunkard
who has once been a gentleman, I reflected to myself, for there was
something peculiarly dissolute in his appearance, also one who has had
to do with the sea, a diagnosis which proved very accurate.

"How do you do, Mr. Allan Quatermain, which I think my daughter said is
your name, unless I dreamed it, for it is one that I seem to have heard
before," he exclaimed with a broad Scotch accent which I do not attempt
to reproduce. "What in the name of blazes brings you here where no real
white man has been for years? Well, I am glad enough to see you any way,
for I am sick of half-breed Portuguese and niggers, and snuff-and-butter
girls, and gin and bad whisky. Leave your people to attend to those oxen
and come in and have a drink."

"Thank you, Mr. Robertson----"

"Captain Robertson," he interrupted. "Man, don't look astonished. You
mightn't guess it, but I commanded a mail-steamer once and should like
to hear myself called rightly again before I die."

"I beg your pardon--Captain Robertson, but myself, I don't drink