I lit my pipe, which had gone out, before answering.
“Have you people ever heard of Mt Kenia?” I asked.
“Don’t know the place,” said Good.
“Did you ever hear of the Island of Lamu?” I asked again.
“No. Stop, though—isn’t it a place about 300 miles north of Zanzibar?”
“Yes. Now listen. What I have to propose is this. That we go to Lamu and thence make our way about 250 miles inland to Mt Kenia; from Mt Kenia on inland to Mt Lekakisera, another 200 miles, or thereabouts, beyond which no white man has to the best of my belief ever been; and then, if we get so far, right on into the unknown interior. What do you say to that, my hearties?”
“It’s a big order,” said Sir Henry, reflectively.
“You are right,” I answered, “it is; but I take it that we are all three of us in search of a big order. We want a change of scene, and we are likely to get one—a thorough change. All my life I have longed to visit those parts, and I mean to do it before I die. My poor boy’s death has broken the last link between me and civilization, and I’m off to my native wilds. And now I’ll tell you another thing, and that is, that for years and years I have heard rumours of a great white race which is supposed to have its home somewhere up in this direction, and I have a mind to see if there is any truth in them. If you fellows like to come, well and good; if not, I’ll go alone.”
“I’m your man, though I don’t believe in your white race,” said Sir Henry Curtis, rising and placing his arm upon my shoulder.
“Ditto,” remarked Good. “I’ll go into training at once. By all means let’s go to Mt Kenia and the other place with an unpronounceable name, and look for a white race that does not exist. It’s all one to me.”