"Cazi Moto," he said calmly after three minutes, "this man is a liar. He
is not sick; he merely wants to get out of carrying a load."

The Kavirondo, his eyes rolling, shot forth a torrent of language.

"He says," Cazi Moto summarized all this, "that he was very sick, but that
this medicine"--indicating the thermometer--"cured him."

"He lies again," said Kingozi. "This is not medicine, but magic that tells
me when a man has uttered lies. This man must beware or he will get
_kiboko_."

The Kavirondo scuttled away, and Kingozi gave his attention to the second
patient. This man had an infected leg that required some minor surgery.
When the job was over and Kingozi had washed his hands, he relighted his
pipe and sat back in his chair with a sigh of content. The immediate
foreground sank below his consciousness. He stared across the flickering
fires at the velvet blackness; listened across the intimate, idle noise of
the camp to the voice of the veldt.

For with the fall of darkness and the larger silence of darkness, the
veldt awoke. Animals that had dozed through the hot hours and grazed
through the cooler hours in somnolent content now quivered alert. There
were runnings here and there, the stamp of hoofs, sharp snortings as taut
nerves stretched. Zebras uttered the absurd small-dog barks peculiar to
them; ostriches boomed; jackals yapped; unknown birds uttered hasty wild
calls. Numerous hyenas, near and far away, moaned like lost souls. Kingozi
listened as to the voice of an old acquaintance telling familiar things;
the men chattered on, their whole attention within the globe of light from
their fires.