"And there is no more water for a journey."
"You are liars," we observed politely.
"And near is the village of our chief, who is a great warrior,
and will bring you many presents; the greatest man in these
parts."
"Now you're getting to it," we observed in English; "you want
trade." Then in Swahili, "We shall march two hours longer."
After a few polite phrases they went away. We finished lunch,
remounted, and rode up the trail. At the edge of the canyon we
came to a wide clearing, at the farther side of which was
evidently the village in question. But the merry villagers, down
to the last toro, were drawn up at the edge of the track in a
double line through which we rode. They were very wealthy
savages, and wore it all. Bright neck, arm, and leg ornaments,
yards and yards of cowry shells in strings, blue beads of all
sizes (blue beads were evidently "in"), odd scraps and shapes of
embroidered skins, clean shaves and a beautiful polish
characterized this holiday gathering. We made our royal progress
between the serried ranks. About eight or ten seconds after we
had passed the last villager-just the proper dramatic pause, you
observe-the bushes parted and a splendid, straight, springy young
man came into view and stepped smilingly across the space that
separated us. And about eight or ten seconds after his
emergence-again just the right dramatic pause-the bushes parted
again to give entrance to four of the quaintest little dolls of
wives.
