"Hullo!" cried Kingozi, surprised. "This is not porter's talk; this is headman's talk!"
"In my own country I am headman of many people," replied Mali-ya-bwana with a flash of pride.
"Yet you carry my tent load."
But Mali-ya-bwana made no reply, fixing his fierce eyes on the distant crawling safari.
"It must be a sportsman's safari," said Kingozi, this time to himself, "though what a sportsman wants in this back-of-beyond is a fair conundrum. Probably one of these chappies with more money than sense: wants to go somewhere nobody else has been, and can't go there without his caviare and his changes of clothes, and about eight guns--not to speak of a Complete Sportsman's Outfit as advertised exclusively by some Cockney Tom Fool on Haymarket." He contemplated a problem frowningly. "Whoever it is will be a nuisance--a damn nuisance!" he concluded.
"N'dio, bwana," came Mali-ya-bwana's cheerful response to this speech in a language strange to him.
"You have asked a true question," Kingozi shifted to Swahili. "Where is potio to be had for so large a safari? Trouble--much trouble!" He arose from the flat stone. "We will go and talk with this safari."
At an angle calculated to intercept the caravan, Kingozi set off down the hill.
After twenty minutes' brisk walk it became evident that they were approaching the route of march. Animals fled past them in increasing numbers, some headlong, others at a dignified and leisurely gait, as though performing a duty. The confused noise of many people became audible and the tapping of safari sticks against the loads.
At the edge of a tiny opening Kingozi, concealed behind a bush, reviewed the new arrivals at close range, estimating each element on which a judgment could be based. As usual, he thought aloud, muttering his speculations sometimes in his own language, sometimes in the equally familiar Swahili.