By Means Of Our Mutual
Accomplishment In That Tongue, And Through A More Efficient Sign
Language, I Got Him To Understand The Plan Of Campaign.
It was
very simple.
I squatted down inside the rape, while he went
around the other side to scare them up.
The white birds uttered their peculiarly derisive cackle at the
old man and flapped over to my side. Then they were certainly an
astonished lot of birds. I gave them both barrels and dropped a
pair; got two more shots as they swung over me and dropped
another pair, and brought down a straggling single as a grand
finale. The flock, with shrill, derogatory remarks, flew in an
airline straight away. They never deviated, as far as I could
follow them with the eye. Even after they had apparently
disappeared, I could catch an occasional flash of white in the
sun.
Now the old gentleman came whooping around with long, undignified
bounds to fall on his face and seize my foot in an excess of
gratitude. He rose and capered about, he rushed out and gathered
in the slain one by one and laid them in a pile at my feet. Then
he danced a jig-step around them and reviled them, and fell on
his face once more, repeating the word "Bwana! bwana! bwana!"
over and over-"Master! master! master!" We returned to camp
together, the old gentleman carrying the birds, and capering
about like a small boy, pouring forth a flood of his sort of
Swahili, of which I could understand only a word here and there.
Memba Sasa, very dignified and scornful of such performances, met
us halfway and took my gun.
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