I remember among them a spare pair of very dirty trousers, a battered tin cup, a wooden spoon such as Kaffirs use to eat their _scoff_ with, a bottle full of some doubtful compound, sundry roots and other native medicines, an old pipe I had given him, and last but not least, a huge head of yellow tobacco in the leaf, of a kind that the Mazitu, like the Pongos, cultivate to some extent.
"What on earth do you want so much tobacco for, Hans ?" I asked.
"For us three black people to smoke, Baas, or to take as snuff, or to chew.

Perhaps where we are going we may find little to eat, and then tobacco is a food on which one can live for days.

Also it brings sleep at nights." "Oh! that will do," I said, fearing lest Hans, like a second Walter Raleigh, was about to deliver a long lecture upon the virtue of tobacco.
"There is no need for the yellow man to take this weed to our land," interrupted Komba, "for there we have plenty.

Why does he cumber himself with the stuff ?" and he stretched out his hand idly as though to take hold of and examine it closely.
At this moment, however, Mavovo called attention to his bundle which he had undone, whether on purpose or by accident, I do not know, and forgetting the tobacco, Komba turned to attend to him.

With a marvellous celerity Hans rolled up his blanket again.