From day to day Mkuni's supporters increased in number.
"Come and see the white man's bridge fall into the tumbling waters," was his daily invitation, and many came.
"I am sorry for these white men, for they work to no profit."
And Mkuni's adherents increased.
But, in spite of all, the work progressed. The thin steel arms flung out from either bank crept nearer daily towards the clasping of hands, and yet the bridge did not fall.
Poor old Mkuni, firm in his belief, found it hard to stomach the thinning in the number of his fellow watchers. He became highly indignant. In vain he talked—piled unanswerable argument upon argument unanswerable. Someone put it about that there was nothing the white man could not do. Many agreed with this, and went home.
At last the engineer who built the Victoria Falls Bridge saw his work complete.
Mkuni, too, saw that the work was finished—all but the pole in the middle to keep it from tumbling down.
Under all his anxiety the poor old man had shrunk visibly; so, too, had the number of those who believed in him, and had come at his invitation to watch with him the disaster which he assured them must overtake that bridge.
Poor old Mkuni!