For the moment we felt like men possessed of a new horse apiece. We were for dashing out to look the acquisition over. But Will checked us.
"Recall what Courtney said about a dog?" he asked. "We can't all own him!"
Fred sat down. "Ex-missionaries own dice," he announced. "That's how they come to be ex! You'll find them in the little box on the shelf, Will. We'll throw a main for Kazimoto!"
"I know a better gamble than that!'
"Name it, America."
"Bring the coon in and have him choose."
So I went out and felt tempted to speak cordially to the homeless ugly black man—to give him a hint that he was welcome. But it is a fatal mistake to make a "soft" impression on even the best natives at the start.
"Karibu!"* I said gruffly when I had looked him over, using one of the six dozen Swahili words I knew as yet. [*Karibu, enter, come in.]
He arose with the unlabored ease that I have since learned to look for in all natives worth employing; and followed me indoors. Will and Fred were seated in judicial attitudes, and I took a chair beside them.
"What is your name?" demanded Fred.