"Not yet, bwana."
"Don't tell him, then, but bring him in here. Tell him there are folk in here who say he is a liar."
The Nyamwezi backed out, and we heard whispering outside. There is precious little performance in Africa without a deal of talk. At the end of about ten minutes the porter again shouted "Hodi!" and this time was followed in by the stranger, seven other of our own men, uninvited, bringing up the rear.
"Jambo!"* said the Baganda, with a great effort at bravado, when his eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom and the first severe surprise of seeing white men had worn off. He was a very cool customer indeed. [* Jambo! Kiswahili equivalent of "How d'you do?">[
"Whose pimp are you?" demanded Fred, without answering the salutation.
The man fell back on insolence at once. There is no native in Africa who takes more keenly to that weapon than the mission-schooled Baganda.
"I am employed by a gentleman of superior position," he answered in perfectly good English.
"In what capacity?" demanded Fred.
"I am not employed to tell his secrets to the first strangers who ask me!"
"Do you obey him implicitly?"