The Ivory Trail Read online

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE NJO HAPA SONG

  Delights--ah, Ten are the dear delights (and the Book forbids them, one by one)-- The broad old roads of a thousand loves--back turned to the Law--the lawless fun-- Old Arts for new--old hours reborn--and who shall mourn when the sands have run?

  I was old when they told the Syren Tales (All ears were open then!) And the harps were afire with plucked desire For the white ash oars again-- For oars and sail, and the open sea, High prow against pure blue, The good sea spray on eye and lip, The thrumming hemp, the rise and dip, The plunge and the roll of a driven ship As the old course boils anew!

  Sweetly I call, the captains come. The home ties draw at hearts in vain. Potent the spell of Africa! Who East and South the course has ta'en By Guardafui to Zanzibar may go, but he, shall come again.

  Courtney proved better than his word. Our Big Game Licenses arrivedafter breakfast, and permits for five hundred rounds of rifleammunition each. In an envelope in addition was Fred's check with thecollector's compliments and the request that we kindly call and pay forthe licenses. In other words we now had absolution.

  We called, and were received as fellow men, such was the genius ofCourtney's friendship. A railway man looked in. The collector's dimoffice became awake with jokes and laughter.

  "Going up today?" he asked. "I'll see you get berths on the train."

  We little realized at the moment the extent of that consideration; butunderstanding dawned fifteen minutes before high noon when we strolledto the station behind a string of porters carrying our luggage.Courtney was there to see us off, and he looked worried.

  "I'm wondering whether you'll ever get your luggage through," he saidwith a sort of feminine solicitude. It was strange to hear the hero ofone's school-days, mighty hunter and fearless leader of forlorncampaigns, actually troubled about whether we could catch our train.But so the man was, gentle always and considerate of everybody buthimself.

  There was law in this new land, at all events along the railway line.Not even handbags or rifles could pass by the barrier until weighed andpaid for. Crammed in the vestibule in front of us were fifty peoplefretfully marshalling in line their strings of porters lest any latercomer get by ahead of them; foremost, with his breast against theticket window, was Georges Coutlass. Things seemed not to beproceeding as he wished.

  There was one babu behind the window--a mild, unhappy-looking Punjabi,or Dekkani Mussulman. There was another at the scales, who knew almostno English: his duty was to weigh--do sums--write the result on aslip, and then justify his arithmetic to office babu and passenger,before any sort of progress could be made. The fact that allpassengers shouted at him to hurry or be reported to big superiorscomplicated the process enormously; and the equally discordant factthat no passenger--and especially not Georges Coutlass--desired orintended to pay one anna more than he could avoid by hook, crook, orargument, made the game amusing to the casual looker-on, but hastenednothing (except tempers). The temperature within the vestibule was112' by the official thermometer.

  "You pair of black murderers!" yelled Coutlass as we took our place inline. "You bloody robbers! You pickpockets! You train-thieves! Goout and dig your graves! I will make an end of you!"

  "You should not use abusive language" the babu retorted mildly,stopping to speak, and then again to wipe his spectacles, and hisforehead, and his hands, and to glance at the clock, and to mutter whatmay or may not have been a prayer.

  Coutlass exploded.

  "Shouldn't, eh? Who the hell are you to tell me what I shouldn't do?Sell me a ticket, you black plunderer, d'you hear! Look! Listen!"

  He snatched a piece of paper from the babu's hand and turned to facethe impatient crowd.

  "This hell-cat--" (the unhappy babu looked less like a hell-cat thanany vision of the animal I ever imagined) "wants to make out thatseventy-one times seven annas and three pice is forty-nine rupees,eleven annae! Oh, you charlatan! You mountebank! You black-bloodedrobber! You miscreant! Cut your throat, I order you!"

  The babu expostulated, stammered, quailed. Coutlass drew in his breathfor the gods of Greece alone knew what heights of fury next. Butinterruption entered.

  "There, that's enough of you! Get to the back of the line!"

  The man who had promised us berths came abruptly through the barrier,and unlike the babu did not appear afraid of any one. The Greek letout his gathered breath with a bark of fury, like a seal coming up tobreathe. Taking that for a symptom of opposition the newcomer, verycool in snow-white uniform and helmet, seized Coutlass by the neck andhustled him, arguing like a boiler under pressure, through the crowd.The Greek was three inches taller, and six or eight inches bigger roundthe chest, but too astonished to fight back, and perhaps, too, aware ofthe neighborhood of old da Gama's fort, where more than one Greek waspining for the grape and olive fields of Hellas. With a final shovethe railway official thrust him well out into the road.

  "If you miss the train, serve you right!" he said. "Babus are willingservants, to be treated gently!"

  Then he saw us.

  "You're late! Where's your luggage? These your porters? Allright--put you on your honor. Go on through. Save time. Have yourstuff weighed, and settle the bill at Nairobi. All of it, mind! Babu,let these people through!"

  Followed by Courtney, who seemed to have right of way wherever itsuited him to wander, we filed through the gate, crossed the blazinghot platform, and boarded a compartment labeled "Reserved." Therailway man nodded and left us, to hurry and help sell tickets.

  It was an Indian type railway carriage be left us in, a contraption notill-suited to Africa--nor yet so comfortable as to diminish thesensation of travel toward new frontiers.

  Each car was divided into two compartments, entirely separate andentered from opposite ends; facing ours was the rear end of asecond-class car, into which we could look if the doors were open andwe lay feet-foremost on the berths. The berths were arrangedlengthwise, two each side, and one above the other.

  It was what they called a mixed train, mixed that is of freight andpassengers--third-class in front, second next, then first, and a dozenlittle iron freight cars of two kinds in front. In those days therewere neither tunnels nor bridges on that railway, and there was asingle seat on the roof at each end of first- and second-classcompartments reached by a ladder, for any passenger enamored of theview. Even the third-class compartments (and they were otherwise asdeliberately bare and comfortless as wood and iron could make them) hadlattice-work shades over the upper half of the windows.

  For the babu's encouragement, and to increase the panic of theticketless, the engineer was blowing the whistle at short intervals.Passengers, released in quicker order now that a white official waslending the two babus a hand, began coming through the barrier insudden spurts, baggage in either hand and followed hot-foot by nativeswith their heavier stuff. They took headers into the train, and theporters generally came back grinning.

  "I see through the whistling stunt," Will announced. "My, but thatfellow on the engine has faith; or else the system's down real fine inthese parts! He won't be back for a week. Those woolly-headed portersare going to save up his commission and hand it to him when he bringsthe down-train in! The game's good: he whistles--passengerruns--can't make change--pays two, three, four, ten times what thejob's worth--and the porters divvy up with the engineer. But goodlord, the porters must be honest!"

  Presently a pale white man in khaki with a red beard entered ourcompartment, and Courtney had to make room for him on the seat. Heapologized with less conviction of real regret than I ever remembernoticing, although the pouches under his eyes gave him a ratherworld-weary look.

  "Not another first-class berth on the train--every last one engaged.Might be worse. Might have had to ride with Indians. Curse of thiscountry, Indians are. I'd rid the land of 'em double-quick ifg
overnment 'ud pay me a rupee a head--an' I'd provide cartridges! Butgovernment likes 'em! Ugh! Ever travel in one compartment with adozen of 'em? Sleep in a tent with a score of 'em? Share blanketswith a couple of 'em on a cold night? No? You be glad I'm not anIndian. One's enough!"

  We made room for his belongings, and leaned from the window all on oneseat together. The time to start arrived and passed; hot passengerscontinued spurting for the train at intervals--all sorts ofpassengers--English, Mauritius--French, Arab, Goanese, German, Swahili,Indian, Biluchi, one Japanese, two Chinamen, half-breeds,quarter-breeds of all the hues from ivory to dull red, guinea-yellow,and bleached out black; but the second-class compartment facing ourdoor remained empty. There was a name on the card in the little metalreservation frame, and every passenger who could read English glancedat it, but nobody came to claim it even when the engine's extra shrillscreaming and at last the ringing of a bell warned Courtney that timewas really up, and he got out on the platform.

  "Good-by," he said through the window. "I've done what I could to bringyou luck. Don't be tempted to engage the first servants who apply toyou at Nairobi. If you wait there a week I'll send my Kazimoto to you;he's a very good gun-bearer. He'll be out of a job when I'm gone. Ishall give him his fare to Nairobi. Engage him if you want adependable boy, but remember the rule about dogs: a good one has onemaster! I don't mean Kazimoto is a dog--far from it. I mean, treathim as reasonably as you would a dog, and he'll serve you well. He's afirst-class Nyamwezi, from German East. Oh, and one more scrap ofadvice--":

  He came close to the window, but at that moment the engine gave a finalscream and really started. Passengers yelled farewells. The engine'sapoplectic coughs divided the din into spasms, and there came a greatbellowing from the ticket office. He could not speak softly and beheard at all. Louder he had to speak, and then louder, ending almostwith a shout.

  "The best way to Elgon is by way of Kisumu and Mumias, whatever anybodyelse may tell you. And if you find the stuff, or any of it," (he wasrunning beside the train now)--"be in no hurry to advertise the fact!Go and make terms first with government--then--after you've madeterms--tell 'em you've found it! Find the stuff--make terms--thenproduce what you've found! Get my meaning? Good-by, all. Good luck!"

  We left him behind then, wiping the sweat from his wrinkled, freckledforehead, gazing after us as if we had all been lifelong friends ofhis. He made no distinction between us and Fred, but was equallyanxious to serve us all.

  "If that man isn't white, who is?" demanded Will, and then there wasnew interest.

  We had left the ticket office far behind, but the train was movingslowly and there was still a good length of platform before our carwould be clear of the station altogether. We heard a roar like abull's from behind, and a dozen men--white, black and yellow--camecareering down the platform carrying guns, baggage, bedding, and allthe paraphernalia that travelers in Africa affect.

  First in the van was Georges Coutlass, showing a fine turn of speed buttripping on a bed-sheet at every other step, with his uncased rifle inone hand, his hat in the other, an empty bandolier over one shoulderand a bag slung by a strap swinging out behind him. He made a leap forthe second-class compartment in front of us, and landed on all fours onthe platform. We opened the door of our compartment to watch himbetter.

  Once on the platform he threw his rifle into the compartment and bracedhimself to catch the things his stampeding followers hurled afterhim--caught them deftly and tossed them in, yelling instructions inGreek, Kiswahili, Arabic, English, and two or three other languages.It may be that the engineer looked back and saw what was happening (orperhaps the guard signaled with the cord that passed through eyeholesthe whole length of the train) for though we did not slow down wegained no speed until all his belongings had been hurled, and caught,and flung inside. Then came his traveling companions--caught by onehand and dragged on their knees up the steps. They were heavy men, buthe snatched all three in like a boy pulling chestnuts from the fire.

  The first was a Greek--evil-looking, and without the spirit that in thecase of Coutlass made a stranger prone to over-lookshortcomings--dressed in khaki, with rifle and empty bandolier. Next,chin, elbow, hand and knee up the steps came a fat, tough-lookingGoanese, dressed anyhow at all in pink-colored dirty shirt, dark pants,and a helmet, also with rifle and empty bandolier. I judged he weighedabout two hundred and eighty pounds, but Coutlass yanked him in like afish coming overside. Last came a man who might be Arab, or part-Arab,part-Swahili, whom I did not recognize at first, fat, black, dressed inthe white cotton garments and red fez of the more or less well-to-donative, and voluble with rare profanity.

  "Johnson!" shouted Fred with almost the joy of greeting an oldacquaintance.

  It was Hassan, sure enough, short-winded and afraid, but more afraid ofbeing left behind than of the manhandling. Coutlass took hold of hisoutstretched arm, hoisted him, cracked his shins for him against thetop step, and hurled him rump-over-shoulders into the compartment,where the other Greek and the Goanese grabbed him by the arms and legsand hove him to an upper berth, on which he lay gasping like a fish outof water and moaning miserably. Their compartment was a mess ofluggage, blankets, odds-and-ends, and angry men. Coutlass found awhisky bottle out of the confusion, and swallowed the stuff neat whilethe other Greek and the Goanese waited their turn greedily. There wasnothing much in that compartment to make a man like Hassan feel at home.

  "Those Greeks," said our red-bearded traveling companion as we shut thedoor again, "are only one degree better than Indians--a shade lessdepraved perhaps--a sight more dangerous. I sure do hate a Punjabi,but I don't love Greeks! The natives call 'em bwana masikini to theirfaces--that means Mister Mean White y'know. They're a lawless lot, theGreeks you'll run across in these parts. My advice is, shoot first!Walk behind 'em! If they ain't armed, hoof 'em till they cut an' run!Greeks are no good!"

  We introduced ourselves. He told us his name was Brown.

  "There's three Browns in this country: Hell-fire Brown of Elementaita,Joseph Henry Brown of Gilgil, and Brown of Lumbwa. Brown of Lumbwa'sme. Don't believe a word either of the other two Browns tell you!Yes, we're all settlers. Country good to settle in? Depends what youcall good. If you like lots of room, an' hunting, natives to wait an'your own house on your own square mile--comfortable climate--noconventions--nor no ten commandments, why, it's pretty hard to beat.But if you want to wear a white shirt, and be moral, and get rich, it'srotten! You've a chance to make money if you're not over law-abiding,for there's elephants. But if you're moral, and obey the laws, youhaven't but one chance, an' she's a slim one."

  "Well," said Fred, genially, "tell us about the only one. We're men towhom the ten commandments are--"

  "You look it!" Brown interrupted. "Well, what's the odds? You'llnever find it, and anyhow, everybody knows it's Tippoo Tib's ivory. Imean to have a crack at spotting it myself, soon as I get my farmfenced an' one or two other matters attended to. Gov'ment offers tenper cent. to whoever leads 'em to it, but they can't believe any one'sas soft as that surely! They'll be lucky if they get ten per cent. ofit themselves! Man alive, but they say there's a whale of a hoard ofit! Hundreds o' tons of ivory, all waiting to be found, and fossickedout, an' took! Say--if I was some o' those Greeks for instance, tellyou what I'd do: I'd off to Zanzibar, an' kidnap Tippoo Tib. The oldcard's still living. I'd apply a red-hot poker to his silver-side an'the under-parts o' his tripe-casings. He'd tell me where the stuff isquicker'n winking! Supposin' I was a Greek without morals or nocompunctions or nothin', that's what I'd do! I don't hold withallowin' any man to play dog in the manger with all that plunder!"

  "Have you a notion where the stuff might be?" Fred wondered guilelessly.

  "Ah! That 'ud be tellin'!"

  We had crossed the water that divides Mombasa from the mainland.Behind us lay the prettiest and safest harbor on all thatthousand-league-long coast; before us was the narrow territory thatstill paid revenu
e and owed nominal allegiance to the Sultan ofZanzibar, although really like the rest of those parts under Britishrule. We were bowling along beside plantations of cocoanut, peanut,plantain and pineapple, with here and there a thicket of strange treesto show what the aboriginal jungle had once looked like. When westopped at wayside stations the heat increased insufferably, until weentered the great red desert that divides the coast-land from thehills, and after that all seemed death and dust, and haziness, and hell.

  At first we passed occasional baobabs, with trunks fifteen or twentyfeet thick and offshoots covering a quarter of an acre. Then the treesthinned out to the sparse and shriveled all-but-dead things thatstruggle for existence on the border-lines between man's land anddesolation. At last we drew down the smoked panes over the window toescape the glare and sight of the depressing desolation.

  The sun beat down on the iron roof. The heat beat up from the tracks.Red dust polluted the drinking water in the little upright tank. Dustfilled eyes, nostrils, hair. Dust caked and grew stiff in the sweatthat streamed down us. Yet we stopped once at a station, and humanslived there and a man got off the train. A lone lean babu and hisleaner, more miserable native crew came out and eyed the train likevultures waiting for a beast to die. But we did not die, and the trainpassed on into illimitable dusty redness, leaving them to watch the hotrails ribbon out behind our grumbling caboose.

  There began to be carousing in the second-class compartment next aheadof us. Our own Brown of Lumbwa produced a stone crock of Irish whiskyfrom a basket, imbibed copiously, offered us in turn the glisteningneck, looked relieved at our refusal, and grew voluble.

  "Hear them Greeks an' that Goa. You'd think they were gentlemen o'breeding to hear 'em carryin' on! Truth is we've no government worth amoment's consid'ration, an' everybody knows it, Greeks included! Youmen lookin' for farms? Take your time! Once you get a farm, an' getyour house built, an' stock bought, an' stuff planted--once you've gotyour capital invested so to speak, they've got you! Till then you'refree! Till then they'll maybe treat you with consideration! Till thenyou leave the country when you like an' kiss yourselves good-by to theman' Africa. Till then they've got no hold! The courts can fine you,maybe, but can they make you pay? It's none so easy if you're halfawake! But take me: Suppose I break a reggylation. What happens?They know where to find me--how much I've got--where it is--an' if Idon't pay the fine, they come an' collar my cattle an' sticks! D'younotice any Greeks applyin' for farms? Not no crowds of 'em you don't!I don't know one single Greek who has a farm in all East Africa! AnyGoas? Not a bit of it! Any Indians? Not one! So when a few extryelephants get shot, I get the blame--down at Lumbwa, where there ain'tno elephants; an' the Greeks, Goas, Arabs an' Indians get fat on theswag! It's easy to keep track of a white man; the natives all knowhim, an' his name, an' where he lives, an' report everything he does tothe nearest gov'ment officer. But Greeks an' Goas an' Indians an'Arabs ain't white, so the natives make no mention of 'em. They do thelootin'; we settlers get the blame; an' the whole perishing country'sgoing to blazes as fast as a lump of ice melting in hell--but not sofast as I'd like to see it go. Have some o' this whisky, won't you?"

  I was scarcely listening to him, but he seemed to get drunk just "sofar and no further," and Fred found him worth attention. It happenedthat Fred, Will and I were all thinking of the same thing. Will put ahand to his neck and stroked the little scar the Arab knife had made inZanzibar.

  "What sort of a country's this for women?" Fred demanded.

  "Which women?" Brown asked in sort of mild amazement.

  "White women?"

  "Rotten! Leastwise, there aren't any. Yes, there's three. Twoofficials' wives, an' Pioneer Jane French. Heard o' her? Walked fromSouth Africa, Jane did--hoofed it along o' French, bossed his boys,drove the cattle, shot the meat, ran the whole shootin' match, an' runshim, too, when he's sober an' she's drunk. When they're both drunkeverybody ducks. She's scarcely a woman, she's sort ofthree-men-rolled-into-one. Give her a horsewhip ae she'll manage theunruliest crowd o' savages ever you or she set eyes on! Countin' heras one, an' the two officials wives, an' her on this train, there'sfour!"

  Our eyes met. I awoke to sudden interest that startled our informantand made him curious in turn.

  "On this train?"

  "On this train. Didn't you see her? She was watching you chaps throughthe window slits like the Queen o' Sheba keepin' tabs on Solomon. Say,what's she doing in this country anyhow? I made a try to get a seat inher carriage, but she ordered me out like Aunt Jemima puttin' out thecat the last thing. She's got a maid in with her, but the maid ain'twhite--Jew--Syrian--Levantine--Dago--some such breed. She's in thiscompartment next behind."

  Our eyes met again. Fred laughed, and Will leaned forward to whisperto me: "She heard what Courtney said to us about the way to MountElgon!"

  "D'you know her name?" asked Brown.

  "No!" we all three lied together with one voice.

  "I do! I seen it on the reservation card. Lady Isobel Saffren Waldon!Pretty high-soundin' patronymic, what? Lady Isobel Saffren Waldon!"He repeated the name over and over, crescendo, with growing fervor."What's a woman with a title doin' d'you suppose? The title's no fake.She's got the blood all right, all right! You ought to ha' heard hershoo me out! Lummy! A nestin' hen giving the office to a snakeweren't in it to her an' me! Good looker, too! What's she doin' inEast Africa?"

  We made no shift to answer.

  "The officials' wives," he went on, "are keen after Tippoo's ivory,but, bein' obliged to stay in the station except when their husbands goon safari, an' then only go where their husbands go, they've no show tospeak of. Pioneer Jane's nuts on it, an' she's dangerous. Jane's aslikely to find the stuff as any one. She's independent--go where sheblooming well pleases--game as a lioness--looks like one, too, only alioness is kind o' softer an' not so quick in the uptake. My money'son Jane for a place. But d'you suppose this Lady SaffrenWhatshername's another one? Them Greeks ahead of us I'm sure of; allthe Greeks in Africa are huntin' for nothin' else. But what about thedame?"

  "Going to join her husband, perhaps," suggested Fred to put him off.

  "There's no man o' that name in British East or Uganda. I know 'emall--every one."

  "Father--brother--uncle--nephew--oh, perhaps she's just traveling,"said Fred.

  "Just traveling my eye! Titled ladies don't come 'just traveling' inthese parts--not by a sight, they don't--not alone!"

  He helped himself to more whisky, but had reached the stage where ithad no further visible effect on him.

  "Anyhow," he said, wiping the neck of the jar with his hand, "if shekids herself she'll be let go where she pleases--why, she kids herself!It takes Pioneer Jane to trespass where writs don't run! Jane goeswhere her husband don't dare follow. The officials don't say a word.Y'see there's no jail where they could stow a white woman and observethe decencies. So she goes over the borderline whenever she sees fit.The king's writ runs maybe for thirty miles north o' this railway.Once over that they can't catch you. But unless you're a black man, orPioneer Jane, the natives tip the gov'ment off an' gov'ment rounds youup afore you get two-thirds the way. They'll take less than half achance with her ladyship or I'm a Dutchman. Why! How would it look tohave to bring her back between two native policemen? She'll not beallowed five miles outside Nairobi township!"

  He up-ended his whisky again, consumed about a pint of it, and settleddown to sleep. We took him by the legs and arms and threw him on theupper berth to stew in the cabined heat under the roof.

  "It's good Monty's not with us," said Fred. He sat down and laughed atour surprise that he should state such heresy. "Monty mustn't breaklaws, but who cares if we do?"

  "Laws?" said Will disgustedly. "I don't care who makes, or breaks thelaws of this land! Let's beat it! Let's join Monty in London and makeplans for some other trip. Everybody's after this ivory. We haven't alook-in. Even if we knew where to look for it we'd be follo
wed. Let'stake the next train back from Nairobi, and the next boat for Europe!"

  Fred rubbed his hands delightedly, and stroked his beard into the neatpoint it refuses to keep for long at a time in very hot weather.

  "Let's stay in Nairobi" he said, "at least until Courtney sends thatboy he promised us. We can put in the time asking questions, andthen--"

  "What then?" grumbled Will.

  "There may be truth in what Brown of Lumbwa says about a dead-line."

  "Dead-line?"

  "Beyond which the king's writ doesn't run."

  "Betcherlife there's truth in it!" Brown mumbled from the upper berth.

  Will exploded silently, going through the motions of reeling off allthe bad language he knew--not an insignificant performance.

  "He's really asleep now," I said, standing on the lower berth andlifting the man's eyelid to make sure.

  "Who cares?" said Will. "He's heard. We've given the game away. Thewoman heard Courtney shout about how to reach Mount Elgon. So did thissharp. Now he hears Fred talk about dead-lines and the king's writ andbreaking laws! The game's up! Me for the down-train and a steamer!"

  We smoked in silence, rendered more depressing by the deepening gloomoutside. With the evening it grew no cooler. What little wind therewas followed the train, so that we traveled in stagnation. Utterdarkness brought no respite, but the fascination of flitting shadowsand the ever-new mystery of African night. The train drew up at lastin a station in the shadow of great overleaning mountains, and the heatshut down on us like hairy coverings. We seemed to breathe throughthicknesses of cloth, and the very trees that cast black shadow on theplatform ends were stifling for lack of air.

  "One hour for dinner!" called the guard, walking limply along the train."Just an hour for dinner! Dinner waiting!"

  He was not at all a usual-looking guard. He was dressed in ridingbreeches and puttee leggings, and wore a worn-out horsey air as if inprotest against the obligation to work in a black man's land. Incountries where the half-breed and the black man live for and almostmonopolize government employment few white men take kindly to braid andbrass buttons. That fellow's contempt for his job was equaled only bythe babu station master's scorn of him and his own for the stationmaster. Yet both men did their jobs efficiently.

  "Only an hour for dinner, gents--train starts on time!"

  "Guard!" called a female voice we all three recognized--"Guard! Comehere at once, I want you!"

  We left Brown of Lumbwa snoring a good imitation of the Battle ofWaterloo on the upper berth, and filed out to the dimly-lightedplatform. A space in the center was roofed with corrugated iron andunder that the yellow lamplight cast a maze of moving shadows as thepassengers swarmed toward the dining-room. The smell of greasy cookingblended with the reek of axle and lamp oil. At the platform's forwardend shadowy figures were throwing cord-wood into the tender, and thethump-thump-thump of that sounded like impatience; everything elsesuggested lethargy.

  "Guard!" called the voice again. "Come here, guard!"

  He stopped in passing to close our windows and lock our compartmentdoor against railway thieves.

  "There's a man asleep in there," I said.

  "The 'eat 'll sober 'im!" he grinned, slamming the last window down."What'll you bet 'er 'ighness don't want me to fetch dinner to 'er?She was in the train in Mombasa two hours afore startin' time, an' thethings she ordered me to do 'ud have made a 'alf-breed think 'e wasdemeaning of 'imself! I 'aven't seen the color of 'er money yet. Ifshe wants dinner she gets out and walks or 'er maid fetches it--youwatch!"

  Coutlass, the other Greek and the Goanese staggered out beside us on tothe platform, drunk enough not to know whether Hassan was with them ornot. He came out and stood beside them in a sort of alert defensiveattitude.

  "Guard!" called the voice again. "Where is the man?"

  We followed the last of the crowd through the screened doors, and tookseats at a table marked "First Class Only!" There were four men thereahead of us, two government officials disinclined to talk; amissionary in a gray flannel shirt, suffering from fever and toosuspicious to say good evening; and a man in charge of that section ofthe line, who checked the station master's accounts and counted moneyin a tray between mouthfuls. Between us and the second-class tableswas a wooden screen on short legs, and beyond that arose babel.Second-class is democratic always, and talks with its mouth full. Inaddition to our privilege of paying more for exactly the same food, weenjoyed exclusiveness, a dirty table-cloth, and the extra smell fromthe kitchen door. (The table-cloth was dirty because the barefootGoanese waiters invariably stubbed their feet against a break in thefloor and spilt soup exactly in the same place.)

  We had scarcely taken our seats when Coutlass swaggered in, closelyfollowed by his gang. Inside the door he turned on Hassan.

  "Black men eat outside!" he snarled, and shoved him out again backward.Then he came over to us and stood leering at the framed sign, "FirstClass Only," avoiding our eyes, but plainly at war with us.

  "Gassharamminy!" he growled. "You think you're popes or something!You three would want a special private piece of earth to spit on!" Heraised his voice to a sort of scream. "I proclaim one class only!"

  At that he lifted his foot about level with his chest and kicked thescreen over. The crash brought everybody to his feet except the twoofficials and the railway man. They continued eating, and the railwayman continued counting copper coins as if life depended on that alone.

  "Sit down all!" yelled Coutlass. "You will eat with better appetitenow that you can behold the blushes of these virgins!" Then heswaggered over to the long table, thrust the other Greek and theGoanese into chairs on either side of him, and yelled for food. It wasthe first time we had been referred to publicly as virgins, and I thinkwe all three felt the strain.

  The Goanese manager--a wizened old black man with perfectly whitehair--came running from the kitchen in a state of near-collapse, thesweat streaming off him and his hands trembling.

  "What shall I do?" he asked, almost upsetting the railway man's tray ofmoney. "That man is crazy! He came in once before and broke thedishes! Twice he has come in here and eaten and refused to pay! Whatshall I do?"

  "Nothing," said the railway man. "Go on serving dinner. Serve himtoo."

  The manager hurried out again and the running to and fro resumed. Thenin came the guard.

  "First-class for two on trays!" he shouted.

  The railway man beckoned to him and he winked as he passed by us.

  "When you've seen to that, and had your own meal, I want you," said therailway man.

  "Thought you said the lady's maid would have to come and fetch thefood?" I said maliciously as the guard passed my chair a second time.

  "So I did. But if you know how to refuse her, just teach me! I toldher flat to have the maid fetch it. She let on they're both toofrightened to cross the platform in the dark! Never saw anything like'em! Tears! An' dignified! When I climbed down they was too afraidnext to be left alone. Swore train-thieves 'ud murder 'em! I had toleave 'em my key to lock 'emselves in with until I come back with thegrub! What d'you think of that?"

  But our soup came, and one could not think and eat that stuffsimultaneously. The railway man looked up for a moment, saw my face,and explained in a moment of expansiveness that meat would not keep inthat climate but was "perfectly good" when cooked.

  "Besides," he added, "you'll get nothing more until you reach Nairobitomorrow noon!"

  That turned out to be not quite true, but as an argument it worked. Weswallowed, like the lined-up merchant seamen taking lime-juice underthe skipper's eye.

  The guard grew impatient and went into the kitchen, but had scarcelygot through the door when a scream came from the direction of the trainthat brought him back on the run. No black woman ever screams in justthat way, and in a land of black and worse-than-black men imaginationleaps at a white woman's call for help.

  There was a stampede for the do
or by every one except the Greeks andGoanese and the railway man. (He had to guard the money.) We pouredthrough the screen doors, the guard fighting to burst between us, and,because with a self-preserving instinct that I have never thought quitecreditable to the human race, everybody ran toward his own compartment,it happened that we three and the two officials and the guard camefirst on the scene of trouble.

  Brown of Lumbwa was still drunk-affectionate, it seemed, by that time.

  "You've no call to be 'fraid of me, li'l sweetheart!" The door wasopen. Within the compartment all was dark, but every sound emerged.There came a stifled scream.

  "Li'l stoopid! What d'you come in for, if you're 'fraid o' poor oleBrown? I won't hurt you."

  The guard passed between us and went up the step. He listened, looked,disappeared through the open door, and there came a sound of struggling.

  "Whassis?" shouted Brown. "An interloper? No you don't! This is myli'l sweetheart! She came in to see me--didn't you, Matilda Ann?"

  The woman apparently broke free. The guard yelled for help. Fred andone of the government officials were nearest and as they entered theypassed the woman coming out. I recognized Lady Saffren Waldon's Syrianmaid, with the big railway key in her fist that the guard had left withher. By that time there was a considerable crowd about our car, unableto see much because it stood in the way of the station lamp-light. Sheslipped through--to the right--not toward Lady Isobel's compartment,and I lost sight of her behind some men. I ran after her, but she wasgone among the shadows, and although I hunted up and down and in andout I could find her nowhere.

  When I returned to our car Brown of Lumbwa was out on the platform withhis hair all tousled and a wild eye. The guard was wiping a bloodynose and everybody was inventing an account of what nobody had seen.

  "Scrag him!" advised some expert on etiquette.

  "What the hell right has anybody got," demanded Brown with querulousferocity, "to interfere between me and a lady? Eh? Whose compartmentwas she in? Me in hers or her in mine? Eh? Me. I'm sleeping.Hasn't a gent a right to sleep? Next thing I know she's fingerin' mywhiskers. How should I know she's not balmy on red beards an' makin'love to me? What right's she got in my compartment anyhow? Who lether in? Who asked her? What if I did frighten her? What then?"

  "Who was she?" demanded the official. "Had anybody seen her before?"

  "The maid attending the lady in the next compartment," said I.

  "Are you sure?"

  "Positive."

  "Very well. Guard! See who is in there!"

  The guard wiped blood from his nose and obeyed orders. We clusteredround the steps to hear.

  "'Ow many's in here?" he demanded.

  There was no answer. He tried the door and it opened 'readily.

  "'Scuse me, but is there two of you? I can't see in the dark."

  "Oh, is that our dinner?" said Lady Saffren Waldon's Voice.

  "No ma'am, not the dinner yet."

  "Why not, pray?"

  "There's folks accusin' your maid o' enterin' the next compartmentan'--an'--"

  "Nonsense! My maid is here! You kept us so long waiting for dinner wewere both asleep! Ah! There's light at last, thank heaven!"

  Two native porters running along the roofs were dropping lamps into theholes appointed for them, and the train that had been a block ofdarkness hewn out of the night was now a monster, many-eyed.

  "They're both in there, so 'elp me!" the guard reported, retreatingbackward through the door and leering at us.

  There remained nobody, except the still indignant Brown of Lumbwa tolevy charges, and the crowd remembered its dinner (not that anythingcould be expected to grow cold in that temperature).

  "The train will start on time!" announced the babu station master, andeverybody hurried to the dining-room. Brown came with us, bewildered.

  "How did it happen?" he demanded. "When did we get here? Why wasn't Icalled for dinner? How did she get in? Where did she go to?"

  "Oh, come and eat curried cow, it's lovely!" answered Will.

  Fred overtook us at the door, and whispered:

  "Our things have been gone through, but I can't find that anything'smissing."

  Within the dining-room was new ground for discontent. The British raceand its offshoots wash, but disbelieve with almost unanimity in wateras a drink. Every guest at either table had left at his place a partlyemptied glass of beer, or brandy and soda, or whisky. Each looked forthe glass on his return, and found it empty.

  "Those Greeks!" exclaimed the Goanese manager, with a fearful air, andshoulders shrugged to disclaim his own responsibility.

  Coutlass and the other Greek were sitting at a table with a gorgedlook, glancing neither to the right nor left, yet not eating. I lookedat the railway official, who had not left his seat. It struck me hewas laughing silently, but he did not look up. The crowd, after themanner of all crowds, stormed at the Goanese manager.

  "What can I do? What shall I do?" wailed the unhappy little man."They are bigger than I! They were greedy! They took!"

  All those charges were evidently true, and stated mildly. Coutlassrose to his feet.

  "Gassharamminy!" he thundered, and his stomach stuck out over the tableit was so full of various drinks. "Why should we not take? Who isn'tthirsty in this hell of a place? Who leaves good drink deserves tolose it!"

  "What shall I do?" wailed the Goanese manager.

  "Take the orders for drinks again," said the railway man, glancing upfrom his figures. "Bring the account to me."

  The waiters ran to fill orders, and a babel of abuse at the secondtable was hurled at Coutlass and his friends; but they did not leavethe table because there was another course to come, and, as the managerhad said, they were greedy. Then in came the guard, his face ablood-and-smudgy picture of discontent.

  "Say!" he yelled. "Ain't I goin' to get those two first-classes ontrays?" He came and stood by us. "Did you ever 'ear the likes of it?They swear neither of 'em was out of the compartment. They call me aliar for askin' for my key back! They swear I never gave it to 'em,'an they never asked for it, an' their door was never locked, nornothin'!"

  He passed on to the railway man.

  "I'll have to borry your key, sir. Mine's lost. Can't open doorsuntil I get one from somewhere."

  The railway man passed him his key with a bored expression and noremark.

  "Don't forget that I want you presently," he ordered. "Be quick andget your own dinner."

  "I'm in love with this ivory hunt!" Fred whispered to us across thetable. "If she's sure our pockets are worth going through, I'm surethere's something to look for!"

  "Are you sure the maid went through our things?" asked Will.

  "Quite. I left my shooting jacket hanging on a hook. Everything wasemptied out of the pockets on to the berth."

  "I think I'll make you a confession presently," said I, with a look atWill that just then he did not understand.

  "Never confess before dessert and coffee!" advised Fred. "It spoilsthe appetite."