Her English was faultless, but some slight unusual spacing of the words,
some ultra-clarity of pronunciation, rather than a recognizable accent,
made evident that the language was not her own.

"Your _askaris_ are slack," said Kingozi briefly.

"And how of these?" she demanded imperiously, sweeping with an almost
theatrical gesture the miserable-looking group of hammock bearers.

"They are at fault," replied Kingozi indifferently, "but after all they
are common porters. You can't expect gun-bearer service or _askari_
service from common porters, now can you?"

He looked at her directly, his clear, steady eyes conveying nothing but a
mild interest in the obvious. In contrast to his detached almost
indifferent calm, the woman was an embodiment of emotions. Head erect, red
lips compressed, breast heaving, she surveyed him through narrowed lids.

"So?" she contented herself with saying.

"It's the nature of the beast to run crazy," pursued Kingozi tranquilly.
"You really can't blame them."

"Then am I to be thrown down, like a sack, when it pleases them to run?"
she demanded tensely. "Really, you are incredible."

"I should expect it. The real point is that you have no business to ride
in a hammock through a rhino country."

The woman's control slipped a very little.