“Monumwezi hapa!” we yelled; and the command was repeated and repeated again by the headman, by his four personal assistants, by a half-dozen lesser headmen.  Slowly the Monumwezi drew aside.  We impressed on them emphatically they must stay thus, and went after, in turn, the Baganda, the Wakamba, the Swahilis, the Kavirondo, the Kikuyu.  When we had them grouped, we went over them individually.  We punched their chests, we ran over all their joints, we examined their feet, we felt their muscles.  Our victims stood rigidly at inspection, but their numerous friends surrounded us closely, urging the claims of the man to our notice.  It was rather confusing, but we tried to go at it as though we were alone in a wilderness.  If the man passed muster we motioned him to a rapidly growing group.

When we had finished we had about sixty men segregated.  Then we went over this picked lot again.  This time we tried not only to get good specimens, but to mix our tribes.  At last our count of twenty-nine was made up, and we took a deep breath.  But to us came one of them complaining that he was a Monumwezi, and that we had picked only three Monumwezi, and—­We cut him short.  His contention was quite correct.  A porter tent holds five, and it does not do to mix tribes.  Reorganization!  Cut out two extra Kavirondos, and include two more Monumwezi.  “Bass! finished!  Now go get your effects.  We start immediately.”

As quickly as it had filled, the street cleared.  The rejected dived back into their huts, the newly enlisted carriers went to collect their baggage.  Only remained the headman and his fierce-faced assistants, and the splendid youths idling up and down—­none of them had volunteered, you may be sure—­and the damsels of leisure beneath the porticos.  Also one engaging and peculiar figure hovering near.

This individual had been particularly busy during our recruiting.  He had hustled the men into line, he had advised us for or against different candidates, he had loudly sung my praises as a man to work for, although, of course, he knew nothing about me.  Now he approached, saluted, smiled.  He was a tall, slenderly-built person, with phenomenally long, thin legs, slightly rounded shoulders, a forward thrust, keen face, and remarkably long, slim hands.  With these he gesticulated much, in a right-angled fashion, after the manner of Egyptian hieroglyphical figures.  He was in no manner shenzi.  He wore a fez, a neat khaki coat and shorts, blue puttees and boots.  Also a belt with leather pockets, a bunch of keys, a wrist watch, and a seal ring.  His air was of great elegance and social ease.  We took him with us as C.’s gunbearer.  He proved staunch, a good tracker, an excellent hunter, and a most engaging individual.  His name was Kongoni, and he was a Wakamba.