“I don’t understand you,” said the commandant.  “Either talk German or speak more slowly!”

Will took a purchase on his stock of patience and began again.

“If our porters run away, you’ll blame us.  We don’t care to be blamed for what is none of our fault.  So if you don’t put ’em all on a chain and lock ’em up nights, we’re going to discontinue paying for their keep.  That’s flat!  You can work ’em if you like.  Let ’em help keep the township clean.  We’ll pay their board and wages as long as you’re responsible for their not escaping!  And say!  If you want to get real work out of ’em I’ll give you a tip.  There never was a savage like that Kazimoto of ours for getting results out of that gang.  Put him on the same chain with the lot of ’em, and we’ll all be satisfied!  I don’t presume to be running your jail, but I’m telling you facts that’ll hurt nobody.  Those porters ’ud be a darn sight better off with plenty of exercise.”

“Do I understand you to ask that your porters be made prisoners?” asked the commandant.

“You get me exactly!” said Will.

The commandant grunted, nodded, waited for us to get up and salute him, grunted again with disgust when we did nothing of the sort, turned on his heel, and walked off.  We spent an hour on tenterhooks, and I began to believe the German had simply become more suspicious than ever and would keep closer watch on us without troubling at all about the men.  But at the end of an hour we saw the porters rounded up, and a chain fetched out that was long enough to hold them all.  They disappeared within the boma wall.  Ten minutes later suddenly Will pointed toward the southward.

“Look!  See what happens when the roofs of shanty-town take fire!”

Flames went up from the dry grass roof of one of the rectangular Swahili huts.  Within thirty seconds the askaris on guard at the boma began firing their rifles in the air as fast as they could pull the trigger and reload.  Within two minutes the chain-gang was headed for jail, where it was locked behind doors, in order that every askari in Muanza might be free to pile arms and hurry to the fire.  It was not only askaris; the whole township turned out as to the circus, with Schubert and his long kiboko ruling the riot.  The other sergeants were in evidence, but quiet, imperturbable men compared to their feldwebel, plying their kibokos without wasting words, stirring the whole world within their reach into action—­if not orderly and purposeful, action, at least.

Schubert climbed on a roof well to windward and safe from the sparks, and directed proceedings in a voice that out-thundered the mob’s roar and crackling flames.  To illustrate his meaning he seized handsful of the thatch on which he stood and tore them out, to the huge discontent of the owner.  The crowd saw what he wanted and began at once tearing off roofs in a wide circle around the fire so as to isolate it, Schubert demonstrating until scarcely a handful of thatch remained on the roof he honored and he had to stand awkwardly on the crisscross poles, while the owner and his women wept.