This would seem to strike the superlative, and I expected now that he would state his business, but the old man had one more shot in his locker.

“Jambo bwana m’kubwa kabeesa sana (greeting, mightiest possible master)!” it came.

Then in due course he delicately hinted that a gift of tobacco would not come amiss.

F. returned a trifle earlier than usual, to admit that his quest was hopeless, that his physical forces were for the time being at an end, and that he was willing to go home.

Accordingly very early next morning we set out by the glimmer of a lantern, hoping to get a good start on our journey before the heat of the day became too severe.  We did gain something, but performed several unnecessary loops and semicircles in the maze of beaten paths before we finally struck into one that led down the slope towards the sea.  Shortly after the dawn came up “like thunder” in its swiftness, followed almost immediately by the sun.

Our way now led along the wide flat between the seashore and the Shimba Hills, in which we had been hunting.  A road ten feet wide and innocent of wheels ran with obstinate directness up and down the slight contours and through the bushes and cocoanut groves that lay in its path.  So mathematically straight was it that only when perspective closed it in, or when it dropped over the summit of a little rise, did the eye lose the effect of its interminability.  The country through which this road led was various—­open bushy veld with sparse trees, dense jungle, cocoanut groves, tall and cool.  In the shadows of the latter were the thatched native villages.  To the left always ran the blue Shimba Hills; and far away to the right somewhere we heard the grumbling of the sea.

Every hundred yards or so we met somebody.  Even thus early the road was thronged.  By far the majority were the almost naked natives of the district, pleasant, brown-skinned people with good features.  They carried things.  These things varied from great loads balanced atop to dainty impromptu baskets woven of cocoa-leaves and containing each a single cocoanut.  They smiled on us, returned our greeting, and stood completely aside to let us pass.  Other wayfarers were of more importance.  Small groups of bearded dignitaries, either upper-class Swahili or pure Arabs, strolled slowly along, apparently with limitless leisure, but evidently bound somewhere, nevertheless.  They replied to our greetings with great dignity.  Once, also, we overtook a small detachment of Sudanese troops moving.  They were scattered over several miles of road.  A soldier, most impressive and neat in khaki and red tarboosh and sash; then two or three of his laughing, sleek women, clad in the thin, patterned “’Mericani,” glittering with gold ornaments; then a half dozen ragged porters carrying official but battered painted wooden kit boxes, or bags, or miscellaneous curious plunder; then more troopers; and so on for miles.  They all drew aside for us most respectfully; and the soldiers saluted, very smart and military.