There is no use in spinning out a sad tale.  We passed what we thought must be our landmark hill just eleven times.  The map showed only one butte; as a matter of fact there were dozens.  At each disappointment we had to reconstruct our theories.  It is the nature of man to do this hopefully—­Tsavo Station must be just around the next bend.  We marched six hours without pause; then began to save ourselves a little.  By all the gods of logical reasoning we proved Tsavo just beyond a certain fringe of woods.  When we arrived we found that there the river broke through a range of hills by way of a deep gorge.  It was a change from the everlasting scrub, with its tumbling waters, its awful cliffs, its luxuriant tropical growths; but it was so much the more difficult to make our way through.  Beyond the gorge we found any amount of hills, kopjes, buttes, sugar loaves, etc., each isolated from its fellows, each perfectly competent to serve as the map’s single landmark.

We should have camped, but we were very anxious to catch that train; and we were convinced that now, after all that work, Tsavo could not be far away.  It would be ridiculous and mortifying to find we had camped almost within sight of our destination!

The heat was very bad and the force of the sun terrific.  It seemed to possess actual physical weight, and to press us down from above.  We filled our canteens many times at the swift-running stream, and emptied them as often.  By two o’clock F. was getting a little wobbly from the sun.  We talked of stopping, when an unexpected thunder shower rolled out from behind the mountains, and speedily overcast the entire heavens.  This shadow relieved the stress.  F., much revived, insisted that we proceed.  So we marched and passed many more hills.

In the meantime it began to rain, after the whole-hearted tropical fashion.  In two minutes we were drenched to the skin.  I kept my matches and notebook dry by placing them in the crown of my cork helmet.  After the intense heat this tepid downpour seemed to us delicious.

And then, quite unexpectedly, of course, we came around a bend to make out through the sheets of rain the steel girders of the famous Tsavo bridge.[15]

We clambered up a steep, slippery bank to the right-of-way, along which we proceeded half a mile to the station.  This consisted of two or three native huts, a house for the East Indian in charge, and the station building itself.  The latter was a small frame structure with a narrow floorless veranda.  There was no platform.  Drawing close on all sides was the interminable thorn scrub.  Later, when the veil of rain had been drawn aside, we found that Tsavo, perched on a hillside, looked abroad over a wide prospect.  For the moment all we saw was a dark, dismal, dripping station, wherein was no sign of life.

We were beginning to get chilly, and we wanted very much some tea, fire, a chance to dry, pending the arrival of our safari.  We jerked open the door and peered into the inky interior.