from the flat stone. "We will go and talk with this safari."

At an angle calculated to intercept the caravan, Kingozi set off down the
hill.

After twenty minutes' brisk walk it became evident that they were
approaching the route of march. Animals fled past them in increasing
numbers, some headlong, others at a dignified and leisurely gait, as
though performing a duty. The confused noise of many people became audible
and the tapping of safari sticks against the loads.

At the edge of a tiny opening Kingozi, concealed behind a bush, reviewed
the new arrivals at close range, estimating each element on which a
judgment could be based. As usual, he thought aloud, muttering his
speculations sometimes in his own language, sometimes in the equally
familiar Swahili.

"_Askaris_ not _pukha[5] askaris_ of the government. Those are not Sniders
they carry--don't know that kind of musket. Those boxes are not the usual
type--wonder where they were bought!"

[Footnote 5: Genuine--regular.]

The hammock came into view, swinging on the long pole. It was borne by
four men at each end--experienced _machele_ carriers who would keep step
with a gentle gliding. Eight more walked alongside as relay. They would
change places so skilfully that the occupant of the hammock could not have
told when the shift took place. Alongside walked a tall, bareheaded, very
black man. Kingozi's experienced eye was caught by differences.