“Good.  What did she do with it?”

“Sujui.”

“I told you not to dare say ‘sijui’ to me!”

“How should I know, bwana,, what she doing with it?”

“Could you steal it?”

“No, bwana!”

“Why not?”

“You not knowing that woman!  No man daring steal from her!  She very terrible!”

“If I offered you a hundred rupees could you steal it?”

“Sujui, bwana.”

“I told you not to use that word!”

“Bwana, I—­”

“Could you steal it?”

“Maybe.”

“That is no answer!”

“Say that again about hundred rupees!”

“I will give you a hundred rupees if you bring me that map and it proves to be what you say.”

“I go.  I see.  I try.  Hundred rupees very little money!”

“It’s all you’ll get, you black rascal!  And you know what you’ll get if you fail!  You know me, don’t you?  You understand my way?  Steal that map and bring it here, and I shall give you a hundred rupees.  Fail, and you shall have a hundred lashes, and what Ahmed and Abdullah and Seydi got in addition!  The hundred lashes first, and the ant-hill afterward!  You’re not fool enough to think you can escape me, I suppose?”

“No. bwana.”

“Then go and get the map!”

“But afterward, what then?  She very gali* woman.” [Gali, same as Hindustani kali—­cruel, hard, fierce, terrible.]

“Nonsense!  Steal the map and bring it here to me.  Then I’ve other work for you.  Are you a renegade Muhammedan?”

“No, bwana!  No, no!  Never!  I’m good Moslem.”

“Very well.  Back to your old business with you!  Preach Islam up and down the country.  Go and tell all the tribes in British territory that the Germans are coming soon to establish an empire of Islam in Africa!  Good pay and easy living!  Does that suit you?”

“Yes, bwana.  How much pay?”

“I’ll tell you when you bring the map.  Now be going!”

Hassan went, after a deal of polite salaaming.  Then boys began bringing the German’s breakfast, and unless I chose to confess myself an eavesdropper it became my business to be in the tent ahead of them.  So I strode forward as if just arrived and purposely tripped over a tent-rope, stumbling under the awning with a laugh and an apology.

“Who are you?” demanded the German without rising.  He had the splay shovel beard described to us in Zanzibar—­big dark man, sitting in the doorway of a tent all hung with guns, skins and antlers.  He was in night-shirt and trousers—­bare feet—­but with a helmet on the back of his head.

“A visitor,” I answered, “staying at the hotel—­out for a morning shot at something—­had no luck—­got nothing—­saw your tents in the distance, and came out of curiosity to find out who you are.”

“My name is Professor Schillingschen,” he answered, still without getting up.  There was no other chair near the awning, so I had to remain standing.  I told him my name, hoping that Hassan had either not done so already, or else that he might have so bungled the pronunciation as to make it unrecognizable.  I detected no sign of recognition on Schillingschen’s face.