AFRICAN CAMP FIRES 



him to a trot. I followed up the street to see where 

 these valuables were being taken, and what were the 

 precautions against theft. Around the next corner, 

 it seemed. As each excited perspiring porter trotted 

 up, he heaved his burden from his head or his 

 shoulders, and promptly scampered back for another 

 load. They were loyal and zealous men; but their 

 headpieces were deficient inside. For the burdens 

 that they saved from the fire happened to be cases 

 of gin in bottles. At least, it was in bottles until 

 the process of saving had been completed. Then it 

 trickled merrily down the gutter. I went back and 

 told the frantic white man about it. He threw up 

 both hands to heaven and departed. 



By dodging from street to street Mohamet and 

 I succeeded in circling the whole disturbance, and so 

 came at length to a public square. Here was a vast 

 throng, and a very good place, so I climbed atop a 

 rescued bale of cotton the better to see. 



Mombasa has no water system, but a wonderful 

 corps of water-carriers. These were in requisition 

 to a man. They disappeared down through the 

 wide gates of the customs enclosure, their naked, 

 muscular, light-brown bodies gleaming with sweat, 

 their Standard Oil cans dangling merrily at the ends 

 of slender poles. A moment later they emerged, the 

 cans full of salt water from the bay, the poles seeming 



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