Khamisi is a neat, cleanly boy of twenty, or thereabouts, active, loud-voiced, a boaster, and the cowardliest of the cowardly.  He will steal at every opportunity.  He clings to his gun most affectionately; is always excessively anxious if a screw gets loose, or if a flint will not strike fire, yet I doubt that he would be able to fire his gun at an enemy from excessive trembling.  Khamisi would rather trust his safety to his feet, which are small, and well shaped.

Ambari is a man of about forty.  He is one of the “Faithfuls” of Speke, and one of my Faithfuls.  He would not run away from me except when in the presence of an enemy, and imminent personal danger.  He is clever in his way, but is not sufficiently clever to enact the part of captain—­could take charge of a small party, and give a very good account of them.  Is lazy, and an admirer of good living—­abhors marching, unless he has nothing to carry but his gun.

Jumah is the best abused man of the party, because he has old-womanish ways with him, yet in his old-womanish ways he is disposed to do the best he can for me, though he will not carry a pound in weight without groaning terribly at his hard fate.  To me he is sentimental and pathetic; to the unimportant members of the caravan he is stern and uncompromising.  But the truth is, that I could well dispense with Jumah’s presence:  he was one of the incorrigible inutiles, eating far more than he was worth; besides being an excessively grumbling and querulous fool.

Ulimengo, a strong stalwart fellow of thirty, was the maddest and most hare-brained of my party.  Though an arrant coward, he was a consummate boaster.  But though a devotee of pleasure and fun, he was not averse from work.  With one hundred men such as he, I could travel through Africa provided there was no fighting to do.  It will be remembered that he was the martial coryphaeus who led my little army to war against Mirambo, chanting the battle-song of the Wangwana; and that I stated, that when the retreat was determined upon, he was the first of my party to reach the stronghold of Mfuto.  He is a swift runner, and a fair hunter.  I have been indebted to him on several occasions for a welcome addition to my larder.

Ferajji, a former dish-washer to Speke, was my cook.  He was promoted to this office upon the defection of Bunder Salaam, and the extreme non-fitness of Abdul Kader.  For cleaning dishes, the first corn-cob, green twig, a bunch of leaves or grass, answered Ferajji’s purposes in the absence of a cloth.  If I ordered a plate, and I pointed out a black, greasy, sooty thumbmark to him, a rub of a finger Ferajji thought sufficient to remove all objections.  If I hinted that a spoon was rather dirty, Ferajji fancied that with a little saliva, and a rub of his loin cloth, the most fastidious ought to be satisfied.  Every pound of meat, and every three spoonfuls of musk or porridge I ate in Africa, contained at least ten grains