The first thing we met of interest on entering the township was a chain-gang, fifty long, marching at top speed in step, led by a Nubian soldier with a loaded rifle, flanked by two others, and pursued by a fourth armed only with the hippo-hide whip, called kiboko by the natives, that can cut and bruise at one stroke.  He plied it liberally whenever the gang betrayed symptoms of intending to slow down.

Those Nubiains, we learned later, were deserters from British Sudanese regiments, and runaways from British jails, afraid to take the thousand-mile journey northward home again, scornful of all foreign black men, fanatic Muhammedans, and therefore fine tools in the German hand.  They worked harder than the chain-gang, for they had to march with it step for step and into the bargain force it to do its appointed labor.  The chain-gang kept the township clean—­very clean indeed, as far as outward appearance went.

The boma, or fort, was down by the water-front and its high eastern wall, pierced by only one gate, formed one boundary of the drill-ground that was also township square.  Facing the wall on the eastern side of the square was a row of Indian and Arab stores.  At the north end was the market building—­an enormous structure of round stucco pillars supporting a great grass roof; and facing that at the southern end were the court-house, the hospital, and a store owned by the Deutch Oest Africa Gesellschaft, known far and wide by its initials—­a concern that owned the practical monopoly of wholesale import and export trade, and did a retail business, too.

We went first to the hospital.  Fred and Will lifted me out of the hammock, for my wound had grown much worse during the last few days, and the door being shut they set me down on the step.  Then we sent Kazimoto into the fort with a note to the senior officer informing him that a European waited at the hospital in need of prompt medical treatment.

The sentry admitted Kazimoto readily enough, but he did not come out again for half-an-hour, and then looked glum.

“Habanah!” he said simply, using the all-embracing native negative.

“Isn’t any one in there?” we demanded all together.

“Surely.”

“How many?”

“Very many.”

“Officers?”

He nodded.

“Is a doctor there?”

He told us he had asked for the doctor.  A soldier had pointed him out. 
 He had placed the note in the doctor’s hand.

“Did he read it?” we asked.

“Surely.  He read it, and then showed it to the other officers.”

“What did they say?”

“They laughed and said nothing.”

It seemed pretty obvious that Kazimoto had made a mistake in some way.  Perhaps he had visited the non-commissioned officers’ mess.

I’ll go myself,” announced Will.  “I can sling the German language like a barkeep.  Bet you I’m back here with a doctor inside of three minutes!”