MOMBASA 



away from us at the customs house by a ragged 

 horde of blacks. It began to look as though we 

 were stranded in Africa without baggage or effects. 

 Billy and B. were all the time growing fainter in the 

 distance, though evidently they too had struck the 

 long, slanting road. 



Then we came to a dim, solitary lantern glowing 

 feebly beside a bench at what appeared to be the top 

 of the hill. Here our guide at last came to a halt 

 and turned to me a grinning face. 



"Samama hapa," he observed. 



There! That was the word I had been frantically 

 searching my memory for! Samama stop! 



The others struggled in. We were very warm. 

 Up to the bench led a tiny car track, the rails not 

 over two feet apart, like the toy railroads children 

 use. This did not look much like grown-up trans- 

 portation, but it and the bench and the dim lantern 

 represented all the visible world. 



We sat philosophically on the bench and enjoyed 

 the soft tropical night. The air was tepid, heavy 

 with unknown perfume, black as a band of velvet 

 across the eyes, musical with the subdued undertones 

 of a thousand thousand night insects. At points 

 overhead the soft, blind darkness melted imper- 

 ceptibly into stars. 



After a long interval we distinguished a distant 



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