[Footnote 1: Every watercourse with any water at all, even in occasional
pools, is _m'to_--a river--in Africa.]

"And I to go in the other direction?" asked Cazi Moto.

Bwana Kingozi considered, glancing at the setting sun, and again up the
dry stream-bed where, as far as the eye could reach, were no more
indications of water.

"No," he decided. "It is late. Soon the lions will be hunting. I will go."

The men sprawled in abandon. After an interval a shrill whistle sounded
from the direction in which Bwana Kingozi had disappeared. The men
stretched and began to rise to their feet slowly. The short rest had
stiffened them and brought home the weariness to their bones. They
grumbled and muttered, and only the omnipresence of Cazi Moto and the
threat of his restless whip roused them to activity. Down the stream they
limped sullenly.

Kingozi stood waiting near the edge of the bank. The thicket here was very
dense.

"Water there," he briefly indicated. "The big tent here; the opening in
that direction. Cook fire over there. Loads here."

The men who had been standing, the burdens still on their heads, moved
forward. The tent porter--who, by the way, was the strongest and most
reliable of the men, so that always, even on a straggling march, the tent
would arrive first--threw it down at the place selected and at once began