The morning discovered to us Voi as the station, the district commissioner’s house on a distant side hill, and a fairly extensive East Indian bazaar.  The keepers of the latter traded with the natives.  Immediately about the station grew some flat shady trees.  All else was dense thorn scrub pressing close about the town.  Opposite were the tall, rounded mountains.

Nevertheless, in spite of its appearance, Voi has its importance in the scheme of things.  From it, crossing the great Serengetti desert, runs the track to Kilimanjaro and that part of German East Africa.  The Germans have as yet no railroad; so they must perforce patronize the British line thus far, and then trek across.  As the Kilimanjaro district is one rich in natives and trade, the track is well used.  Most of the transport is done by donkeys—­either in carts or under the pack saddle.  As the distance from water to water is very great, the journey is a hard one.  This fact, and the incidental consideration that from fly and hardship the mortality in donkeys is very heavy, pushes the freight rates high.  And that fact accounts for the motor car, which has been my point of aim from the beginning of this paragraph.

The motor car plies between Voi and the German line at exorbitant rates.  Our plan was to have it take us and some galvanized water tanks out into the middle of the desert and dump us down there.  So after breakfast we hunted up the owner.

He proved to be a very short, thick-set, blond German youth who justified Weber and Fields.  In fact, he talked so exactly like those comedians that my task in visualizing him to you is somewhat lightened.  If all, instead of merely a majority of my readers, had seen Weber and Fields that task would vanish.

We explained our plan, and asked him his price.

“Sefen hundert and feefty rupees,"[11] said he uncompromisingly.

He was abrupt, blunt, and insulting.  As we wanted transportation very much—­though not seven hundred and fifty rupees’ worth—­we persisted.  He offered an imperturbable take-it-or-leave-it stolidity.  The motor truck stood near.  I said something technical about the engine; then something more.  He answered these remarks, though grudgingly.  I suggested that it took a mighty good driver to motor through this rough country.  He mentioned a particular hill.  I proposed that we should try the station restaurant for beer while he told me about it.  He grunted, but headed for the station.

For two hours we listened to the most blatant boasting.  He was a great driver; he had driven for M., the American millionaire; for the Chinese Ambassador to France; for Grand-Duke Alexis; for the Kaiser himself!  We learned how he had been the trusted familiar of these celebrities, how on various occasions—­all detailed at length—­he had been treated by them as an equal; and he told us sundry sly, slanderous, and disgusting anecdotes of these worthies, his forefinger laid one side his nose.  When we finally got him worked up to the point of going to get some excessively bad photographs, “I haf daken myself!” we began to have hopes.  So we tentatively approached once more the subject of transportation.