“Dost thou really like big Simba?”
“Oh, Simba, how canst thou ask? Thou hast succeeded my father Mohammed in my affections. Remember the Liemba and the crocodile. I can never forget that awful moment, for the scars on my leg remind me of it daily.”
“I thought thou didst like Simba a little; but wouldst thou be very sorry if Simba died to be left in this valley to be eaten by the hyaena and the jackal, Abdullah?”
“Don’t, don’t, Simba, for Allah’s sake, ask any such thing. Thou hast said thou art not going to die, then why torment me?”
“Yes; but I might die if Master Abdullah did not do me one favour, for—”
“Speak; command me, Simba—anything, everything,” urged Abdullah.
“If Master Abdullah would only make a little fire, and Master Selim cut a little meat from that fine eland that lies dead by that tree yonder, Simba might eat meat and live.”
“Thou shalt have meat, Simba,” cried Abdullah, “before thou canst count one hundred,” and he bustled about, ran here and there; collected bunches of dry grass, leaves, twigs, sticks; brought a good-sized log or two of dead wood, between which a fire should be built; while Selim, after taking the spear which had probed the leopard’s heart, had run towards the dead eland, and was slashing and carving great chunks of meat.
Abdullah had his pile of wood ready, but he now turned with a puzzled expression towards Simba, and said “Here is the wood; but where and how can we get fire? Our guns are in the bottom of the sea!”
Kalulu, Moto, and Niani had come up by this time, and Moto, after examining the wounds of his friend, turned round to Abdullah and said: