I were idly exchanging remarks with the only white man in sight,
killing time until the engine should whistle to a resumption of
the journey. The guard lingered about just out of earshot. At the
end of five minutes C. happened to catch his eye, whereupon he
ventured to approach.

"When you have finished your conversation," said he politely, "we
are all ready to go on."

On the morning in question there were a lot of us to
disembark-one hundred and twenty-two, to be exact-of which four
were white. We were not yet acquainted with our men, nor yet with
our stores, nor with the methods of our travel. The train went
off and left us in the middle of a high plateau, with low ridges
running across it, and mountains in the distance. Men were
squabbling earnestly for the most convenient loads to carry, and
as fast as they had gained undisputed possession, they marked the
loads with some private sign of their own. M'ganga, the headman,
tall, fierce, big-framed and bony, clad in fez, a long black
overcoat, blue puttees and boots, stood stiff as a ramrod,
extended a rigid right arm and rattled off orders in a high
dynamic voice. In his left hand he clasped a bulgy umbrella, the
badge of his dignity and the symbol of his authority. The four
askaris, big men too, with masterful high-cheekboned
countenances, rushed here and there seeing that the orders were
carried out. Expostulations, laughter, the sound of quarrelling
rose and fell. Never could the combined volume of it all override
the firecracker stream of M'ganga's eloquence.

We had nothing to do with it all, but stood a little dazed,