“You came to the right place,” he assured us when the last hot porter had dumped the last of our belongings on the porch, had ceased from chattering to watch Fred’s financial methods, had been paid double the customary price, and had gone away grumbling (to laugh at us behind our backs).  “They’d have rooked you at the other hole—­underfed you, overcharged you, and filled you full of lies.  I tell the truth to folk who come to my hotel.”

And he did, some of it.  He was inexhaustible, unconquerable, tireless, an optimist always.  He had a store that was part of the hotel, in which he claimed to sell “everything the mind of man could wish for in East Africa”; and the boast was true.  He even sold American dime novels.

“East Africa’s a great country!” he kept assuring us.  “Some day we’ll all be rich!  Have to get ready for it!  Have to be prepared!  Have to stock everything the mind of man can want, to encourage new arrivals and make the old ones feel at home.  Lose a little money, but why grumble?  Get it back when the boom comes.  As it will, mind you.  As it will.  Can’t help it.  Richest country in the world—­grow anything—­find anything—­game—­climate—­elevation—­scenery—­natives by the million to do the work—­all good!  Only waiting for white men with energy, and capital to start things really moving!”

But there were other points of view.  We went to the bank, and found its manager conservative.  The amount of the draft we placed to our credit insured politeness.

“Be cautious,” he advised us.  “Take a good look round before you commit yourselves!”

He agreed to manage the interchange of messages between us and Monty, and invited us all to dinner that evening at the club; so we left the bank feeling friendly and more confident.  Later, a chance-met English official showed us over the old fort (now jail) where men of more breeds and sorts than Noah knew, better clothed and fed than ever in their lives, drew endless supplies of water in buckets from da Gama’s well.

“Some of them have to be kicked out when their sentences expire!” he told us.  “See you at the club tonight.  Glad to help welcome you.”

But there was a shock in store, and as time passed the shocks increased in number and intensity.  Our guns had not been surrendered to us by the customs people.  We had paid duty on them second-hand at the rate for new ones, and had then been told to apply for them at the collector’s office, where our names and the guns’ numbers would be entered on the register—­for a fee.

We now went to claim them, and on the way down inquired at a store about ammunition.  We were told that before we could buy cartridges we would need a permit from the collector specifying how many, and of what bore we might buy.  There was an Arab in the store ahead of us.  He was buying Martini Henry cartridges.  I asked whether he had a permit, and was told he did not need one.