Already the carrion birds had gathered in incredible numbers. The sky was
full of them circling; an encompassing ring of them sat a scant fifty
yards distant, their wings held half out from their bodies, as though they
felt overheated. And in the low bushes could be discerned the lurking,
furtive, shadowy jackals.

The men were laughing, their weariness forgotten. Maulo, the camp
humourist, declaimed loudly at the top of his lungs, mocking the
marabouts, the buzzards, the vultures great and small, the kites and the
eagles.

"Go to the lion," he cried, "he kills much, and leaves. Little meat will
you get here. We keep what we get!"

And the men broke into meaningless but hearty laughter, as though at
brilliant wit.

But Bwana Kingozi's low voice cut across the merriment.

"_Bandika!_" he commanded.

And immediately Cazi Moto and Simba took up the cry.

"_Bandika! bandika! bandika!_" they vociferated over and over. Cazi Moto
moved here and there, lively as a cricket, his eyes alert for any
indication of slackness, his _kiboko_ held threateningly.

But there was no need for the latter. The men willingly enough swung aloft
their loads, now augmented by the meat, and the little caravan moved on.