"Food is ready, bwana."
"I will eat. Then we must make shauri with these people to get our loads. My men must rest to-day."
"Come, bwana," said Cazi Moto.
Kingozi stooped to pass through the door. When he straightened outside, he paused in amazement. Before him stood his camp, intact. The green tent with the fly faced him, the flaps thrown back to show within his cot and tin box. White porters' tents had been pitched in the usual circle, and before each squatted men cooking over little fires. The loads, covered by the tarpaulin, had been arranged in the centre of the circle. At a short distance to the rear the cook camp steamed.
Cazi Moto stood at his elbow grinning.
"Hot water ready, bwana," said he; and for the first time Kingozi noticed that he carried a towel over his arm.
"This is good, very good, Cazi Moto!" said he. "Backsheeshi m'kubwa for this; both for you and for Simba."
"Thank you, bwana," said Gaza Moto. "Simba brought the water, and it saved us; and I thought that my bwana should not sleep on grass a second time before these shenzis."
"Who carried in the loads? Not our porters?"
"No, bwana, the shenzis."