The first was a Greek—­evil-looking, and without the spirit that in the case of Coutlass made a stranger prone to over-look shortcomings—­dressed in khaki, with rifle and empty bandolier.  Next, chin, elbow, hand and knee up the steps came a fat, tough-looking Goanese, dressed anyhow at all in pink-colored dirty shirt, dark pants, and a helmet, also with rifle and empty bandolier.  I judged he weighed about two hundred and eighty pounds, but Coutlass yanked him in like a fish coming overside.  Last came a man who might be Arab, or part-Arab, part-Swahili, whom I did not recognize at first, fat, black, dressed in the white cotton garments and red fez of the more or less well-to-do native, and voluble with rare profanity.

“Johnson!” shouted Fred with almost the joy of greeting an old acquaintance.

It was Hassan, sure enough, short-winded and afraid, but more afraid of being left behind than of the manhandling.  Coutlass took hold of his outstretched arm, hoisted him, cracked his shins for him against the top step, and hurled him rump-over-shoulders into the compartment, where the other Greek and the Goanese grabbed him by the arms and legs and hove him to an upper berth, on which he lay gasping like a fish out of water and moaning miserably.  Their compartment was a mess of luggage, blankets, odds-and-ends, and angry men.  Coutlass found a whisky bottle out of the confusion, and swallowed the stuff neat while the other Greek and the Goanese waited their turn greedily.  There was nothing much in that compartment to make a man like Hassan feel at home.

“Those Greeks,” said our red-bearded traveling companion as we shut the door again, “are only one degree better than Indians—­a shade less depraved perhaps—­a sight more dangerous.  I sure do hate a Punjabi, but I don’t love Greeks!  The natives call ’em bwana masikini to their faces—­that means Mister Mean White y’know.  They’re a lawless lot, the Greeks you’ll run across in these parts.  My advice is, shoot first!  Walk behind ’em!  If they ain’t armed, hoof ’em till they cut an’ run!  Greeks are no good!”

We introduced ourselves.  He told us his name was Brown.

“There’s three Browns in this country:  Hell-fire Brown of Elementaita, Joseph Henry Brown of Gilgil, and Brown of Lumbwa.  Brown of Lumbwa’s me.  Don’t believe a word either of the other two Browns tell you!  Yes, we’re all settlers.  Country good to settle in?  Depends what you call good.  If you like lots of room, an’ hunting, natives to wait an’ your own house on your own square mile—­comfortable climate—­no conventions—­nor no ten commandments, why, it’s pretty hard to beat.  But if you want to wear a white shirt, and be moral, and get rich, it’s rotten!  You’ve a chance to make money if you’re not over law-abiding, for there’s elephants.  But if you’re moral, and obey the laws, you haven’t but one chance, an’ she’s a slim one.”

“Well,” said Fred, genially, “tell us about the only one.  We’re men to whom the ten commandments are—­”