“Does the Baganda know there are white men in this village?” Fred asked.

“Not yet, bwana.”

“Don’t tell him, then, but bring him in here.  Tell him there are folk in here who say he is a liar.”

The Nyamwezi backed out, and we heard whispering outside.  There is precious little performance in Africa without a deal of talk.  At the end of about ten minutes the porter again shouted “Hodi!” and this time was followed in by the stranger, seven other of our own men, uninvited, bringing up the rear.

“Jambo!"* said the Baganda, with a great effort at bravado, when his eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom and the first severe surprise of seeing white men had worn off.  He was a very cool customer indeed. [* Jambo!  Kiswahili equivalent of “How d’you do?”]

“Whose pimp are you?” demanded Fred, without answering the salutation.

The man fell back on insolence at once.  There is no native in Africa who takes more keenly to that weapon than the mission-schooled Baganda.

“I am employed by a gentleman of superior position,” he answered in perfectly good English.

“In what capacity?” demanded Fred.

“I am not employed to tell his secrets to the first strangers who ask me!”

“Do you obey him implicitly?”

“I do.  I am honorable person.  I receive his pay and do his bidding.”

“Is his name Schillingschen?”

The Baganda hesitated.

“All right,” said Fred.  “I know his name is Schillingschen.  You have boasted that you do what he orders you.  These men tell me you have said that the Germans are coming to conquer the country and destroy all people, including the English, who have not accepted Islam!”

The man hesitated again, glancing over his shoulder to discover his retreat cut off by our porters, and eying Fred with malignity that reminded one of a cornered beast of prey.  He could control his face, but not his eyes.

“Oh, no, sir!” he answered after swallowing a time or two.  “How could they tell such lies against me!  I am a person born in Uganda, now a British protectorate and enjoying all blessings of British rule.  I am educated at the mission college at Entebbe.  How should I tell such a tale against my benefactors?”

“That is what you are here to explain!” Fred answered.  “No!  You can’t escape, you hellion!  Squat down and answer!”

“All this stuff is pretty familiar,” Will interrupted.  “In the States there are always people going the rounds among our darkies preaching some form of treason.  Over there we can afford to treat it as a joke—­now and then an ugly one, and on the darkies!”

“This is an ugly joke on a darkie, too!” grinned Fred.

The Baganda made a sudden dive and a determined struggle to get through the door, but our porters were too quick and strong for him.

“Confession is your one chance!” said Fred.