He waved three nondescripts to the front, and we chose a tall Swahili because he grinned better than the others.  “Although,” as Fred remarked, “what the devil grinning has to do with cooking is more than anybody knows.”  The man, whose name was Juma, turned out to be an execrable cook, but as he never left off grinning under any circumstances (and it would have been impossible to imagine circumstances worse than those we warred with later on) we never had the heart to dismiss him.

After that, Will and I selected a servant apiece who were destined forever to wage war on Kazimoto in hopeless efforts to prevent his giving Fred the best end of everything.  Mine was a Baganda who called himself Matches, presumably because his real name was unpronounceable.  Will chose a Malindi boy named Tengeneza (and that means arrange in order, fix, make over, manage, mend—­no end of an ominous name!).  They were both outclassed from the start by Kazimoto, but to add to the handicap he insisted that since he was a headman he would need some one to help look after Fred at times when other duties would monopolize his attention.  He himself picked out an imp of mischief whose tribe I never ascertained, but who called himself Simba (lion), and there and then Simba departed up-stairs to steal for Fred whatever was left of value among Will’s effects and mine.

We had scarcely got used to the idea of once more having a savage apiece to wait on us when Kazimoto turned up at the door with a string of porters and a Goanese railway clerk.  We had left our tents and heavy baggage checked at the station, but had said nothing about them to our new headman; however, he had made inquiries and worked out a plan on his own account.  The railway clerk asked to know whether he should let Kazimoto have our things.

“Why?"’ demanded Fred.

“This hotel no good!” announced Kazimoto.  “No place for boys.  Heap too many plenty people.  Pitching camp, that good!”

“All right,” said Fred, and then and there paid our baggage charges.

Presently Brown of Lumbwa, who had spent most of the daylight hours in The little corrugated iron bar run by a Goanese in the bazaar, came lurching past the township camping ground, and viewed Kazimoto with his gang pitching our tents.  He asked questions, but could get no information, so came along to us.

“Where you schaps going?” he demanded, leaning against the wall.  Fred took advantage of the opportunity and examined him narrowly as to his knowledge of German East and ways of getting there.  He was in an aggravating mood that made at one moment a very well of information of him, and at the next a mere garrulous ass.

“Come along o’ me t’ Lumbwa,” was his final word on the matter.  “I’ll put you on a road nobody knows an’ nobody, uses!”

We spent that night under canvas and talked the matter out.  The usual way to reach Lumbwa was to wait for a freight, or construction train and beg leave to ride on that, for as yet, no passenger trains were running regularly on the western section of the line.  But there was no rule against traveling anywhere south of the equator, and it was our purpose to march down into German East without any one being the wiser.