“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.

“Kazimoto.”

“Um-m!  That means ‘Work-like-the-devil.’  Let us hope you live up to it.  Your former master gives you a good character.”

“Why not, bwana?  My spirit is good.”

“Do you want work?”

“Yes.”

“How much money do you expect to get?”

“Sijui!”

“Don’t say sijui!” I cut in, remembering Schillingschen’s method.

“Six rupees a month and posho,” he said promptly.  Posho means rations, or money in lieu of rations.

“Don’t you rather fancy yourself?” suggested Fred with a perfectly straight face.

“Say two dollars a month all told!” Will whispered to me behind his hand.

“I am a good gun-bearer!” the native answered.  “My spirit is good.  I am strong.  There is nobody better than me as a gun-bearer!”

“We happen to want a headman,” answered Fred.  “Have you ever been headman?”

“Would you like to be?”

“Yes.”

“Are you able?”

“Surely.”

“Choose, then.  Which of us would you like to work for?”

“You!” he answered promptly, pointing at Fred.

It was on the tip of the tongue of every one of us to ask him instantly why, but that would have been too rank indiscretion.  It never pays to seem curious about a native’s personal reasons, and it was many weeks before we knew why he had made up his mind in advance to choose Fred and not either of us for his master.

His choice made, and the offer of his services accepted, he took over Fred forthwith—­demanded his keys—­found out which our room was—­went over our belongings and transferred the best of our things into Fred’s bag and the worst of his into ours—­remade Fred’s bed after a mysterious fashion of his own, taking one of my new blankets and one of Will’s in exchange for Fred’s old ones—­cleaned Fred’s guns thoroughly after carefully abstracting the oil and waste from our gun-cases and transferring them to Fred’s—­removed the laces from my shooting boots and replaced them with Fred’s knotted ones—­sharpened Fred’s razors and shaved himself with mine (to the enduring destruction of its once artistic edge)—­and departed in the direction of the bazaar.

He returned at the end of an hour and a half with a motley following of about twenty, arrayed in blankets of every imaginable faded hue and in every stage of dirtiness.

“You wanting cook,” he announced.  “These three making cook.”