[CHAPTER VII]
THE WATER-HOLE
A seasoned African traveller in ordinary circumstances sleeps very soundly, his ear attuned only to certain things. So Kingozi hardly stirred on his cork mattress, although the lions roared full-voiced satisfaction when they left the rhinoceros, and the yells of the hyenas rose to a pandemonium when at last they were permitted to join the feast. Likewise the nearer familiar noises of men rising to their daily tasks at four o'clock--the yawning, stretching, cracking of firewood, crackling of fire, low-voiced chatter--did not disturb him. Yet, so strangely is the human mind organized, had during the night a soft whisper of padded feet, even the deep breathing of a beast, sounded within the precincts of the camp, he would instantly have been broad awake, the rifle that stood loaded nearby clasped in his hand. Thus he lay quietly through the noises of men working, but came awake at the sound of men marching. He arose on his elbow and drew aside the flap of his tent.
At the same instant Cazi Moto stopped outside. The usual formula ensued.
"Hodie!" called Cazi Moto.
"Karibu," replied Kingozi.
Thus Cazi Moto at once awakened and greeted his master, and Kingozi acknowledged.
Cazi Moto entered the tent and lighted the tiny lantern, for it was still an hour and a half until daylight.
"I hear men marching," said Kingozi. Cazi Moto stopped.
"It is the safari of Bibi-ya-chui." Already Kingozi's nickname for her had been adopted.