390 THE LAND OF THE LION 
conversation ended before proceeding. Each of them 
balanced his load with one hand while he held a long pipe 
of tobacco to his mouth with the other. One by one they 
tilted their loads on to the heap of earth. I examined the 
loads carefully, they did not average five pounds. I could 
scarcely believe my eyes, but so it was. Some one of their 
number had settled for all the gang what the load should 
be; there was scarcely an ounce of difference in the weight, 
and the Waganda were intelligent enough to know what 
not to do. Their wage was twopence a day, it was not 
worth a penny. A few hours afterward I found myself 
in a rickshaw bound for Mengo, the native capital, twenty- 
four miles away — one Waganda in the shafts, three behind. 
The road for this country was good but very hilly, and in 
places very soft. The ’rickshaw was a clumsy native-made 
affair, the wheels heavy enough for a pony-cart, and far 
heavier than those of a well-made American buggy. I 
weighed two hundred pounds, my friend one hundred and 
forty; and we had cameras and two good-sized bags, a heavy 
load for men to draw in a truly awful machine from a 
traction point of view. Our few Waganda, however, 
made nothing of it, and went off in the sweltering heat, 
chanting one of their endless, grunting songs. When the 
road was good we made at least eight miles the hour. We 
did the twenty-four miles with one change of men, without 
one moment’s stop in four hours. Considering the cir- 
cumstances, this was surely extraordinarily good going. 
The men at first sweated profusely, but before covering 
twelve miles they had run themselves dry. Only one of the 
eight men employed, so far as I could see, drank a drop of 
water during the whole run. The willingness and hearti- 
ness with which the whole thing was done, and their evident 
content with the modest tip given them, of three shillings 
for the whole eight, was impressive. The men came from 
the same tribe and had about the same physique as my 
