AT LAST WE REACH THE TANA. 363 
was to be our last. There were now but four, now three, and 
now two days more for us to endure, and we should be on 
the banks of the Tana River. When we camped at sun- 
set on the 6th of October, we could see a long line of 
dhum palms but three miles distant, and all hearts were 
glad. Taking out my theodolite, I found we were exactly 
on the Equator. The rising sun would see us out of this 
land of death. 
Bright and early we were on the banks of the broad, 
swift-flowing Tana. What a change! No more of the 
unknown to penetrate. As I thought of this, my ardor for 
marching further utterly collapsed. It seemed as though 
a steamer ought to come along and fetch us. And where 
were the natives with their canoes, which we expected to 
find? However, although I resented the idea of having to 
tramp three hundred miles farther, I could only feel glori- 
ously happy. There was no further reason to fear lest 
the rich results of my expedition should be lost. 
But now let those patient readers who have done us the 
honor of following our fifteen months’ wandering all the 
way from Berbera, imagine our joy and astonishment, and 
especially the feelings of Dodson and myself, when a canoe 
hove in sight just around a bend in the river, — and in 
that canoe sat a man holding a pink umbrella! Yes, true 
enough, a pink umbrella, and underneath a man in a white 
suit! We knew that only seven white men had ever 
passed along this part of the Tana before. And was it 
to be our good fortune, then, to arrive here just in the nick 
of time to meet the eighth explorer, as he sped swiftly along 
on his homeward course? I fired two shots from my 
Winchester, and the next instant the salute was answered 
from the canoe. With all the Somalis drawn up in line 
behind us, presenting arms, Dodson and I awaited the 
landing of the white man. Introductions by a third person 
