THE LAST FRONTIER 



blanket turbans the half-wild savage faces peered 

 out. 



Now Mahomet approached. Mahomet was my 

 personal boy. He was a Somali from the Northwest 

 coast, dusky brown, with the regular clear-cut fea- 

 tures of a Greek marble god. His dress was of neat 

 khaki, and he looked down on savages; but, also, as 

 with all the dark-skinned races, up to his white mas- 

 ter. Mahomet was with me during all my African 

 stay, and tested out nobly. As yet, of course, I did 

 not know him. 



"Chakula taiari," said he. 



That is Swahili. It means literally "food is 

 ready." After one has hunted in Africa for a few 

 months, it means also "paradise is opened," "grief 

 is at an end," "joy and thanksgiving are now in 

 order," and similar affairs. Those two words are 

 never forgotten, and the veriest beginner in Swahili 

 can recognize them without the slightest effort. 



We followed Mahomet. Somehow, without or- 

 ders, in all this confusion, the personal staff had been 

 quietly and efficiently busy. Drawn a little to one 

 side stood a table with four chairs. The table was 

 covered with a white cloth, and was set with a beau- 

 tiful white enamel service. We took our places. 

 Behind each chair straight as a ramrod stood a neat 

 khaki-clad boy. They brought us food, and pre- 

 38 



