they be, long o’ barrel and strong, but too high trajectory for some folks;—­some’s new style, magazines an’ all—­fine till a grain o’ sand jams ’em oop;—­an’ Lee-Enfields, souvenirs o’ the Boer War, some o’ them bought from folks what plundered a battle-field or two—­mostly all in good condition.  Look at this one—­see it—­hold it—­take a squint along it!  Nineteen elephants shot wi’ that Lee-Enfleld, an’ the man’s in jail for shootin’ of ’em!  Sold at auction by the gov’ment, that one was.  See, here’s an Express—­a beauty—­owned by an officer fr’m Indy—­took by a shark ‘e was, in swimmin’ against all advice, him what had hunted tigers!  There’s no goon store a quarter as good as mine ‘tween Cairo an’ the Cape or Bombay an-’ Boma!  Captain Cook’s the boy to sell ye goons all right!  Sit down.  Look ’em over.  Ask anything ye want to know.  I’ll tell ye.  No obligation to buy.”

There is no need to fit out with guns and tents in London.  Until both good and bad, both cowardly and brave give up the habit of dying in bed, or getting killed, or going broke, or ending up in jail for one cause and the other, there will surely always be fine pickings for men on the spot with a little money and a lot of patience—­guns, tents, cooking pots, and all the other things.

We spent a morning with Captain Thomas Cook, and left the store—­Fred, Yerkes and I—­with a battery of weapons, including a pistol apiece—­that any expedition might be proud of. (Monty, since he had to go home in any case, preferred to look over the family gun-room before committing himself.)

Then, since the first leg of the journey would be the same for all of us we bought other kit, packed it, and booked passages for British East Africa.  Between then and the next afternoon when the British India steamboat sailed we were fairly bombarded by inquisitiveness, but contrived not to tell much.  And with patience beyond belief Monty restrained us from paying court to Tippoo Tib.

“The U. S. Consul says he’s better worth a visit than most of the world’s museums,” Yerkes assured us two or three times.  “He says Tippoo Tib’s a fine old sport—­damned rogue—­slave-hunter, but white somewhere near the middle.  What’s the harm in our having a chin with him?”

But Monty was adamant.

“A call on him would prove nothing, but he and his friends would suspect.  Spies would inform the German government.  No.  Let’s act as if Tippoo Tib were out of mind.”

We grumbled, but we yielded.  Hassan came again, shiny with sweat and voluble with offers of information and assistance.

“Where you gentlemen going?” he kept asking.

“England,” said Monty, and showed his own steamer ticket in proof of it.  That settled Hassan for the time but Georges Coutlass was not so easy.  He came swaggering upstairs and thumped on Monty’s door with the air of a bearer of king’s messages.

“What do you intend to do?” he asked. (We were all sitting on Monty’s bed, and it was Yerkes who opened the door.)