“Now bring up number one again!” the lieutenant ordered.

The askaris ceased from flogging him.  One of them kicked him to his feet, and he resumed his stand in front of the lieutenant, looking up at him as proudly as ever, for all that his back was bruised and bloody.

“Did you steal or did you not?” asked the lieutenant.

“Steal what from whom?”

“Oh, go on beating him!  Next case!”

The next man escaped the whip, but his witnesses were less fortunate.  He brought two men and a woman with him to prove an alibi on a charge of attempted theft, and the glibness of their answers convinced the lieutenant they were lying.  In the absence of all evidence for the prosecution except the unsupported word of a police askari who admitted a personal grudge against the defendant, the lieutenant resorted to the whip to change the witnesses’ convictions, but without avail.

The woman yelled under the lash like a demented thing, but, far from withdrawing her statements, tried to spit in the lieutenant’s face when jerked to her feet and stood again before him—­an impossible feat because the platform on which he sat at the table was too high.  He had her beaten a second time for spitting.

The next man was a fat Baganda from British territory, charged with trading without a license.  He pleaded ignorance of the law, and denied having traded.  He was flogged for telling lies in court, and changed his testimony under the lash, whereat he was promptly sentenced to a hundred and fifty lashes and a month on the chain-gang.  Under the lash a second time, he recanted—­swore that his first statements had been true and that he had done no trading—­a mistake in tactics that only caused the tale of lashes to be increased by fifty and the term on the chain-gang to be doubled.

“You must learn that the methods taught you on British territory are of no use here!” remarked the lieutenant.

By the time Kazimoto was called and stood out alone in front of him the lieutenant was in a boiling rage, and the floor of the court was actually crowded by prone natives being beaten.  Extra askaris had been sent for in order that proceedings might not be delayed, and the audience could scarcely hear the evidence and sentences because of the crack of whips and the moans of victims. (Not that they all moaned by any means.  By far the most of them submitted to the torture in grim proud silence:  but the few who did make a noise—­especially the women—­made lots of it.)

As Kazimoto faced the lieutenant he turned once and looked at us.  His eyes sought Fred’s.

“Oh, bwana!” he said—­and now for the first time we learned why he had chosen Fred to be his particular master.  “I have been faithful!  Stroke, then, that beard of yours as Bwana Courtney, my former master, used to stroke his.  Then we shall both know what to do!”

Fred stroked his beard promptly, for the man needed comfort, not ridicule:  but the concession to his superstition did none of us any good.