“So I shot the buck, did I?” I asked.

“Those four natives say they saw you shoot it.”

“Then it’s mine?”

He nodded.

“It’s heavy,” I said, “but I expect I can carry it.”

I took the buck by the hind legs and swung myself under it.  It weighed more than a hundred pounds, but the African climate had not had time enough to sap my strength or destroy sheer pleasure in muscular effort.

“What’s mine’s my own I” I laughed.  “You gave me something to eat after all!  Good day, and good riddance!”

The boys tried to prevent my carrying the buck away.

“Come back!” growled the professor.  “I will take responsibility for that buck and save you from punishment.  Bring it back!  Lay it down!”

But I continued to walk away, so he ordered his boys to take the carcass from me.  I laid it down and threatened them with my butt end.  He brought his own rifle out and threatened me with that.  I laughed at him, bade him shoot if he dared, offered him three shots for a penny, and ended by shouldering the buck again and walking off.

Meat was cheap in Nairobi in those days, so the owner of the hotel was not so delighted as I expected.  He reprimanded me for being late for breakfast, and told me I was lucky to get any.  Fred and Will had waited for me, and while we ate alone and I told them the story of my morning’s adventure a police officer in khaki uniform tied up his mule outside and clattered in.

“Whose buck is that hanging outside the kitchen?” he demanded.

“There’s some doubt about it,” I said.  “I’ve been accused of being the owner.”

“Then you’re the man I want.  The court sits at nine.  You’d better be there, or you’ll be fetched!”

He placed in my hand what proved to be a summons to appear before the district court that morning on the charge of carrying an unregistered rifle and shooting game without a license.  Two native policemen he had with him took down the buck from the hook outside the kitchen door and carried it off as evidence.

We finished our breakfast in great contentment, and strode off arm-in-arm to find the court-house, feeling as if we were going to a play—­perhaps a mite indignant, as if the subject of the play were one we did not quite approve, but perfectly certain of a good time.

The court was crowded.  The bearded professor, his four boys, and two other natives were there, as well as several English officials, all apparently on very good terms indeed with Schillingschen.

As we entered the court under the eyes of a hostile crowd I heard one official say to the man standing next him: 

“I hope he’ll make an example of this case.  If he doesn’t every new arrival in this country will try to take the law in his own hands.  I hope he fines him the limit!”

“Give me your hunting-knife, Fred!” said I, and Fred laughed as he passed it to me.  For the moment I think he thought I meant to plunge it into the too talkative official’s breast.