Our fathers mocked the might of the Unseen,
        Teaching that only what we saw and felt
Was good to fight about—­what aye had been,
        Old-fashioned foods that their forefathers smelt,
Old stars each night illuming the old sky,
        The warm rain softening ere women till the ground,
The soft winds singing, only ask not why! 
        And now our weeping is the desert sound. 
                Oh ye, who gorge the daily good,
                Unquestioned heirs of all ye would,
                Spare not too timidly the blood
                Your fathers shed so willingly.

Our fathers taught us that the village good was best. 
        Later we learned the red, new tribal creed
That our place was the sun—­night owned the rest
        Unless their treasure profited our greed! 
But now we gather nothing where our fathers sowed,
        For harvest grim the vultures wait in rows
As, urged by greedier than us with gun and goad,
        Yoked two by two the slave safari goes. 
                Oh ye, who from true judgment shrink,
                Nor gentleness with courage link,
                Be thoughtful when the cup ye drink
                Your fathers spilled so willingly.

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* Monumme (Kiswahili)—­Lit. male-man in his prime.
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The guard procured his trays at last, delivered them at a run, returned in a hurry and swallowed his own meal at a side-table.  Then, with his mouth full, he reported for orders to the railway official, who was still checking figures.  The room was beginning to grow empty.  Coutlass and his Greek friend and the Goanese sat almost alone at the far end of the other table, finishing their pudding.  I had not noticed until then that the guard was a singularly little man.  He stood very few inches taller than the seated official.  I suppose that hitherto in some way his energy had seemed to increase his inches.

“Are there handcuffs in the caboose?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Fetch them.”

In spite of Brown of Lumbwa’s protests, who wept at the notion of having to eat alone, we were in the act of settling our bills and going.  But mention of handcuffs suggesting entertainment, we lit cigars and, imagining we stayed for love of him, Brown cooed at us.

“I’ve the darbies in my pocket, sir!”

I thought the guard looked more undersized than ever.  He would have made a fair-sized middle-weight jockey.

“Tell that Greek—­Coutlass his name is—­to come here.”

With his tongue stuck into his cheek and a wink at us the guard obeyed.

“He says for you to go to ’ell, sir!” he reported after a moment’s interview.

“Very well.  Arrest him!”

“He’ll need help,” I interrupted.  “My two friends and I—­”

“Oh, dear no,” said the official.  “He is fully up to his work.”