“I’ll bet you,” said Will, “he’s off to get an ammunition permit, and permission to go where he damned well pleases!  I’ll bet he gets both!  This government’s the limit!”

We laughed, but Will proved more than half right.  Coutlass did get ammunition.  Lady Saffren Waldon’s influence was already strong enough for that.  He did not ask for leave to go anywhere for the simple reason that his movements depended wholly on ours—­a fact that developed later.

At the hotel there was a pleasant surprise for us.  A squarely built, snub-nosed native, not very dark skinned but very ugly—­his right ear slit, and almost all of his left ear missing—­without any of the brass or iron wire ornaments that most of the natives of the land affect, but possessed of a Harris tweed shooting jacket and, of all unexpected things, boots that he carried slung by the laces from his neck-waited for us, squatting with a note addressed to Fred tied in a cleft stick.

It does not pay to wax enthusiastic over natives, even when one suspects they bring good news.  We took the letter from him, told him to wait, and went on in.  Once out of the man’s hearing Fred tore the letter open and read it aloud to us.

“Herewith my Kazimoto,” it ran.  “Be good to him.  It occurred to me that you might not care after all to linger in Nairobi, and it seemed hardly fair to keep the boy from getting a good job simply because be could make me comfortable for the remainder of a week.  So, as there happened to be ae special train going up I begged leave for him to ride in the caboose.  He is a splendid gun- bearer.  He never funks, but reloads coolly under the most nerve-trying conditions.  He has his limitations, of course, but I have found him brave and faithful, and I pass him along to you with confidence.

        “And by the way:  he has been to Mount Elgon with me.  I
was not looking for buried ivory, but he knows where the caves are in which anything might be! 
        “Wishing you all good luck, Yours truly,
          
                                              “F.  Courtney”

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.