For the babu’s encouragement, and to increase the panic of the ticketless, the engineer was blowing the whistle at short intervals.  Passengers, released in quicker order now that a white official was lending the two babus a hand, began coming through the barrier in sudden spurts, baggage in either hand and followed hot-foot by natives with their heavier stuff.  They took headers into the train, and the porters generally came back grinning.

“I see through the whistling stunt,” Will announced.  “My, but that fellow on the engine has faith; or else the system’s down real fine in these parts!  He won’t be back for a week.  Those woolly-headed porters are going to save up his commission and hand it to him when he brings the down-train in!  The game’s good:  he whistles—­passenger runs—­can’t make change—­pays two, three, four, ten times what the job’s worth—­and the porters divvy up with the engineer.  But good lord, the porters must be honest!”

Presently a pale white man in khaki with a red beard entered our compartment, and Courtney had to make room for him on the seat.  He apologized with less conviction of real regret than I ever remember noticing, although the pouches under his eyes gave him a rather world-weary look.

“Not another first-class berth on the train—­every last one engaged.  Might be worse.  Might have had to ride with Indians.  Curse of this country, Indians are.  I’d rid the land of ’em double-quick if government ‘ud pay me a rupee a head—­an’ I’d provide cartridges!  But government likes ’em!  Ugh!  Ever travel in one compartment with a dozen of ’em?  Sleep in a tent with a score of ’em?  Share blankets with a couple of ’em on a cold night?  No?  You be glad I’m not an Indian.  One’s enough!”

We made room for his belongings, and leaned from the window all on one seat together.  The time to start arrived and passed; hot passengers continued spurting for the train at intervals—­all sorts of passengers—­English, Mauritius—­French, Arab, Goanese, German, Swahili, Indian, Biluchi, one Japanese, two Chinamen, half-breeds, quarter-breeds of all the hues from ivory to dull red, guinea-yellow, and bleached out black; but the second-class compartment facing our door remained empty.  There was a name on the card in the little metal reservation frame, and every passenger who could read English glanced at it, but nobody came to claim it even when the engine’s extra shrill screaming and at last the ringing of a bell warned Courtney that time was really up, and he got out on the platform.

“Good-by,” he said through the window.  “I’ve done what I could to bring you luck.  Don’t be tempted to engage the first servants who apply to you at Nairobi.  If you wait there a week I’ll send my Kazimoto to you; he’s a very good gun-bearer.  He’ll be out of a job when I’m gone.  I shall give him his fare to Nairobi.  Engage him if you want a dependable boy, but remember the rule about dogs:  a good one has one master!  I don’t mean Kazimoto is a dog—­far from it.  I mean, treat him as reasonably as you would a dog, and he’ll serve you well.  He’s a first-class Nyamwezi, from German East.  Oh, and one more scrap of advice—­“: