THE SEFARI 43 
tawny heads led by a veritable black maned king, go safely 
loping off in a level country, while you gaze helplessly at 
them through your glasses, that dark mane falling, as it 
seems to your longing eyes, almost to the ground — almost 
sure, too, to fall a prize to some lucky fellow who brings 
ponies along, and has only been weeks in the country 
to your months. Well, I fear green jealousy is a mortal 
sin, but if ever it be mercifully counted a venal, it is under 
such circumstances. I have been tempted, and have, I 
fear, sadly fallen. Next trip to save my soul, I will sacri- 
fice my pocket, and get me two ponies and a Somali rider. 
One of the most delightful things about sefari life is 
that there should be no hurry in it, and IJ fear I shall be 
accused of wasting much time, as I seem to dally with 
my black family. But all I can say is, there shall be pur- 
pose in my digressions, and if I take a zigzag path to reach 
my camping ground, I only do what every sefari does. 
No tribe, native to this part of Africa, except the un- 
approachable N’dorobo, of whom more anon, compare 
as hunters with the Wakamba. Two or three at least 
of these should find places in your little company. They 
will turn out willingly in the evening, even after a hard 
day’s march, and search for fresh “sign” for you. They will 
assist your gunbearer in skinning out heads, or preparing 
hides and bird skins, and from among them you can most 
probably secure a second gunboy if you have not already 
engaged one. ‘They are very clannish, and it is better 
to have a small group of them, than only one or two. 
And this leads me to say a few words about that friend, 
companion, guide, and mentor, the gunboy. As in Ireland 
so in East Africa, everyone young and old, as soon as he 
can talk and as long as he can totter, is a “boy.” 
Your gunboy should have many qualities—he must 
have one. He must stand. Now that is the one thing 
it is generally hard to get him to do, and considering how 
