THE LAST FRONTIER 



low ridges running across it, and mountains in the 

 distance. Men were squabbling earnestly for the 

 most convenient loads to carry, and as fast as they 

 had gained undisputed possession, they marked 

 the loads with some private sign of their own. 

 M'ganga, the headman, tall, fierce, big-framed and 

 bony, clad in fez, a long black overcoat, blue put- 

 tees and boots, stood stiff as a ramrod, extended a 

 rigid right arm and rattled off orders in a high dy- 

 namic voice. In his left hand he clasped a bulgy 

 umbrella, the badge of his dignity and the symbol 

 of his authority. The four askaris, big men too, 

 with masterful high - cheekboned countenances, 

 rushed here and there seeing that the orders were 

 carried out. Expostulations, laughter, the sound of 

 quarrelling rose and fell. Never could the combined 

 volume of it all override the firecracker stream of 

 M'ganga's eloquence. 



We had nothing to do with it all, but stood a little 

 dazed, staring at the novel scene. Our men were 

 of many tribes, each with its own cast of features, its 

 own notions of what befitted man's performance of 

 his duties here below. They stuck together each 

 in its clan. A fine free individualism of personal 

 adornment characterized them. Every man dressed 

 for his own satisfaction solely. They hung all sorts 

 of things in the distended lobes of their ears. 



36 



