The Somali laid down the burden and prepared to open it. It was wrapped in a kind of coarse blue-striped cloth, much admired by certain tribes of savages.
They had reached a patch of high clearing in the jungle, the moon was shining very brightly, so, although there were lions about, there was very little fear of an attack, these gentry much preferring to catch their foes unawares and by daylight.
The Somali undid his bundle precisely like a packman of olden times, showing off the wares he had for sale.
“This is the food,” he said.
“What! dry rice? Why, my good fellow, I’m not a fowl.”
“Fowl—yes, yes,” cried Nanungamanoo, the first words he had spoken in English. “Here is fowl and rice curry.”
“Ha! glorious!” cried Harry. “Capitally cooked too, done to a turn, tastes delicious. Have a bit yourself, old man. No doubt Mahmoud had intended this for his own little breakfast. I feel double the individual now, Nanungamanoo,” said Harry, after he had done ample justice to the viands of his late lord and master, “double the individual. Now suppose we proceed to investigate still further the contents of your mysterious pack? That’s the ammunition, is it? A goodly lot too! But what is in that other pack? There are wheels within wheels, and packs within packs, my clever Nanungamanoo. You are afraid to touch it—to open it. Give it to me, I will.”
So saying he quickly undid the lashing.
“Why,” he continued in astonishment, as he lifted the things up one by one, “my own best uniform jacket—two pairs of white duck pants—my Sunday-go-meeting pairs—one—two—three—four flannel shirts, my best ones too—a pair of canvas shoes—a packet of new uniform buttons, and a yard of gold lace—three cakes of eating chocolate, and a box of cough drops that old Yonitch gave me as a parting gift. Why, Nanungamanoo, as sure as we’re squatting here, and the moon shining down over us both, that old thief has been and gone and robbed my sea-chest! I see his little game, Nanungamanoo: he was taking these things of mine away into the interior to that happy hunting-ground of his, to swop them away along with myself to the drunken old king for slaves. Yes, and they would have stripped me of the uniform I now wear, and given me an old cow’s hide instead with the horns stuck over my brow and the tail hanging down behind. Oh! Mr Mahmoud, but I have spoiled your fun. But there they are, goodness be praised, and I must not be too hard on old Mahmie after all, for he did save my life.”
Nanungamanoo laughed a sneering laugh.