Without protest—which would have been futile anyway—I sank down on the grass. I was very tired. A little breeze followed the watercourse; the grass was soft; I would have given anything for a nap. But in wild Africa a nap is not healthy; so I drowsily watched the mongooses that had again come out of seclusion, and the monkeys, and the birds. At the end of a long time, and close to sundown, I heard voices. A moment later F., Memba Sasa, and about three-quarters of the men came in. We all, white and black, set to work to make camp. Then we built smudges and fired guns in the faint hope of guiding in the stragglers. As a matter of fact we had not the slightest faith in these expedients. Unless the men were hopelessly lost they should be able to follow our trail. They might be almost anywhere out in that awful scrub. The only course open to them would be to climb thorn trees for the night. Next day we would organize a formal search for them.
In the meantime, almost dead from exhaustion, we sprawled about everywhere. The men, too dispirited even to start their own camp-fires, sat around resting as do boxers between rounds. Then to us came Memba Sasa, who had already that day made a double journey, and who should have been the most tired of all.
"Bwana," said he, "if you will lend me Winchi,[[13]] and a lantern, I will bring in the men."
We lent him his requirements, and he departed. Hours later he returned, carefully leaned "Winchi" in the corner of the tent, deposited the lantern, and stood erect at attention.
"Well, Memba Sasa," I inquired.
"The men are here."
"They were far?"
"Very far."
"Verna, Memba Sasa, assanti sana."[[14]]
That was his sole—and sufficient—reward.