“What about?” Fred demanded.

“About our business.  Why are we here.  What will we do.  What do we know.  What do I know about you.  What do you know about me.  Why do I serve you.  How did I come to take service with you.  To what place will we travel next, and when.  How much money have we with us.  Have we friends or acquaintances in Muanza.  Do you, bwana, carry any letters in your pockets.  Of what do you speak when you suppose no man is listening.  Bwana, my heart is very sad in me!  Those Greeks tell lies, and the Germans stir trouble in a big pot like the witches!  I know the Germans!  I am Nyamwezi.  I was born not far from here, and ran away as soon as I was old enough because the Germans shot my father and let my mother and brothers starve to death.  I did not starve, because one of them took me for a servant; but I ran away from him.  My heart is very sad to be in this place!  They ask what of a hoard of ivory.  I tell them I do not know, and they threaten to beat me!  This place is bad!  Let us go away to-night!”

There was no sleep that night for any of us.  My wound hurt too much.  The others were too worried.  By the light of the lantern in Fred’s tent we cooked up a story to tell that we hoped would induce the Germans to let us wander where we chose.

“Sure, they’ll watch us!” Will admitted.  “But as our only real reason for coming down here—­leaving Brown’s cattle out of the reckoning—­was to throw people off the scent, in what way are we worse off?  The lake is big enough to lose ourselves in!  What is it—­two hundred and fifty miles long by as many broad?  D’you mean we can’t give their sleuths the slip?  We can’t beat that for a plan:  let ’em keep on thinking we know where Tippoo hid the stuff.  If we succeed in losing ’em they’ll think we’re at large in German East and keep on hunting for us—­whereas we’ll really be up in British East.  Let’s send a telegram in code to Monty!”

Then Fred thought of an idea that in the end solved our biggest problem, although we did not think much of it at the time.

“They may refuse to take a telegram in code,” he said.  “It’s likely they’ll open letters. (We can try the code, of course.  They’ll probably take our money, and put their experts on deciphering the message.  They’ll say it was lost if there are any inquiries afterward.) I propose we send a straight-out cablegram advising Monty of our whereabouts (they’ll let that go through) and warning him to ask for letters at the Bank in Mombasa before he does anything else.”

“Yes, but—­” Will objected.

“Wait!” said Fred.  “I haven’t finished.  Then write two letters:  one full of any old nonsense, to be sent in the regular way by mail.  They’ll open that.  The other to go by runner.  Kazimoto can find us a runner.  He knows these Wan-yamwezi.  He can pick a man who’ll get through without fail.”

We could think of nothing to say against the plan.  The argument that the German government would scarcely stoop to opening private mail did not seem to hold water when we examined it, so we wrote as Fred suggested—­one letter telling Monty that we hoped to make some arrangement with the Germans, and at all events to wait in German East until he could join us—­and the other telling him the real facts at great length, laboriously set out in the code we had agreed upon.