To drive these oxen we had one white man named Brown, and two small Kikuyu savages.  One of these worked the brake crank in the rear while the other preceded the lead cattle.  Brown exercised general supervision, a long-lashed whip and Boer-Dutch expletives and admonitions.

In transport riding, as this game is called, there is required a great amount of especial skill though not necessarily a high degree of intelligence.  Along the flats all goes well enough, but once in the unbelievable rough country of a hill trek the situation alters.  A man must know cattle and their symptoms.  It is no light feat to wake up eighteen sluggish bovine minds to the necessity for effort, and then to throw so much dynamic energy into the situation that the whole eighteen will begin to pull at once.  That is the secret, unanimity; an ox is the most easily discouraged working animal on earth.  If the first three couples begin to haul before the others have aroused to their effort, they will not succeed in budging the wagon an inch, but after a moment’s struggle will give up completely.  By that time the leaders respond to the command and throw themselves forward in the yoke.  In vain.  They cannot pull the wagon and their wheel comrades too.  Therefore they give up.  By this time, perhaps, the lash has aroused the first lot to another effort.  And so they go, pulling and hauling against each other, getting nowhere, until the end is an exhausted team, a driver half insane, and a great necessity for unloading.

A good driver, on the other hand, shrieks a few premonitory Dutch words—­and then!  I suppose inside those bovine heads the effect is somewhat that of a violent electric explosion.  At any rate it hits them all at once, and all together, in response, they surge against their yokes.  The heavily laden wagon creaks, groans, moves forward.  The hurricane of Dutch and the volleys of whip crackings rise to a crescendo.  We are off!

To perform just this little simple trick of getting the thing started requires not only a peculiar skill or gift, but also lungs of brass and a throat of iron.  A transport rider without a voice is as a tenor in the same fix.  He may—­and does—­get so hoarse that it is a pain to hear him; but as long as he can croak in good volume he is all right.  Mere shouting will not do.  He must shriek, until to the sympathetic bystander it seems that his throat must split wide open.  Furthermore, he must shriek the proper things.  It all sounds alike to every one but transport riders and oxen; but as a matter of fact it is Boer-Dutch, nicely assorted to suit different occasions.  It is incredible that oxen should distinguish; but, then, it is also incredible that trout should distinguish the nice differences in artificial flies.