"Have we passed the Gomba? Have we not yet reached it?" were the questions we asked each other. It seemed to me that, at the rate we were going, we ought by now to be very near the place, and yet after another hour's tramp we had not struck it. I was under the belief that we had gone about nine miles, and I expressed the opinion that we had passed it, but the Shokas insisted that we had not, so we again proceeded.
We had hardly gone five hundred yards, when we heard a faint, distant, and most welcome dog's bark. It came from the N.W., and we surmised that it must come from Tucker. We had steered too far south of the place, which accounted for our missing it in the darkness.
Guided by the yelping, we hastily directed our steps towards the settlements. The dog's solitary howl was at once supplemented by fifty more angry barks, and though we knew by the sound that we were approaching the village, it was so dark and stormy that we could not find the place. Only when we found ourselves close to the mud huts could we be certain that we had at last arrived.
It was now between 2 and 3 a.m. The rain still came down in torrents, and, alas! there was no sign of any of the inhabitants being willing to give us shelter. It was quite out of the question to pitch our little tente d'abri, for our things were already wringing wet.
The noise we made tapping outside a door was determined, so much so that the door itself nearly gave way.
My Two Yaks
This was a shelter-house, a serai for pilgrims, and as we claimed to be pilgrims, we had, by the laws of the country, a right to admission. The Kutial Nattoo, who had once before reached this lake by a different route, led us to this house.
