Long afterwards, whilst Mahomed was still my servant, we met again one of the Bantus who had laughed at him from the canoe. It was Christmas day, I remember, but he and Mahomed broke the peace outside my bungalow. My friend, he of the canoe, and I ran out together to separate them, but the native head-man told us we would only delay matters by interfering. They had to fight until one was broken.
"Let them fight," said my friend, "let them fight it out."
I looked at Mahomed and saw that he was as thin and delicate as ever, and, to my mind, it seemed his nine stone of flesh and blood must be beaten to pulp by the fourteen stone brute who stood before him.
"Aye, let us fight it out, Sahib," said Mahomed, reading my thoughts, "things have gone too far; we must fight."
"Very well," I reluctantly assented, "but your blood be on your own head."
As I expected the Bantu simply smothered the Somal. Although we barred sticks, knives, or stone-throwing (don't smile, Africans use those things in preference to bare fists) there were many foul blows given and received—more often received by Mahomed—until at last the weaker man was in dire straits. Again and again he staggered to his feet only to hit the ground immediately afterwards.
"Stop. Give in, Mahomed. He's a better man physically, and he'll kill you!"
"I shall never give in," replied Mahomed. "He is a slave and I am his master!"
And then the spirit in him began to triumph over his adversary, who, though quite unhurt, now showed signs of fear. Once he fell to the ground, and seizing Mahomed's leg bit it to the bone. For this act he was rewarded by a kick on the face that gave him the wished-for excuse to "play possum." The battered Mahomed now began to kick his adversary feebly on the body with bare feet, and the latter cried out to us to save him.