Inquiring at the railroad station as to the first train for Segu Sikoro, the last stop, on the road he was told that it would be some hours before the train left.
Cursing the indifference to time one encounters all over Africa, Carl turned to a little telegraph office, and from there dispatched a message to Sana, saying he was on his way to Timbuktoo, and hoped to see her within a week.
At last the train started its weary journey up the Senegal River. Carl had never traveled on an African railway, but, from what he had heard of the experiences of friends, it was something not to be considered in the light of a pleasure trip. Just how many stops it would make from time to time, for water and wood it used for fuel, he dared not picture in advance. Suffice to say, they would be too many to suit anyone in as great a hurry as he was.
From the outset the trip promised to be an unpleasant one. The rain and the heat, together with the swarming flies, foretold as much.
Carl tried to concentrate on his books, but after a few hours dreary ride, punctured by several jerking stops, and accompanied by shrieking wheels, he gave it up. He would just have to sit there and wait for his journey’s end.
So he sat looking out through the rain at the dismal waters of the Senegal, until the train came to a halt at a little way station, the name of which Carl could not ascertain.
Here he was joined, in way of company, by a tall rugged fellow, wearing tweeds that looked totally out of place in that part of the country.
As Carl looked up, the newcomer nodded pleasantly, remarking as he did so, “Beastly weather, this.”
Carl, glad to get in conversation, replied to this greeting with a pleasant, “Fine for ducks.”
The other, settling his bulky figure into the seat opposite Carl, proceeded to fill and light his pipe, saying—“Not supposed to, you know, but I’ve never been stopped yet—Smoke?” offering his tobacco pouch.