THE LAST FRONTIER 



cleaned the rifles; he saw that everything was in 

 order for the day's march; he was at my elbow all 

 ways with more cartridges and the spare rifle; he 

 trailed and looked conscientiously. In his attitude 

 was the stolidity of the wooden Indian. No action 

 of mine, no joke on the part of his companions, no 

 circumstance in the varying fortunes of the field 

 gained from him the faintest flicker of either ap- 

 proval, disapproval, or interest. When we returned 

 to camp he deposited my water bottle and camera, 

 seized the cleaning implements, and departed to his 

 own campfire. In the field he pointed out game that 

 I did not see, and waited imperturbably the result 

 of my shot. 



As I before stated, the result of that shot for the 

 first five days was very apt to be nil. This, at the 

 time, puzzled and grieved me a lot. Occasionally I 

 looked at Memba Sasa to catch some sign of sym- 

 pathy, disgust, contempt, or -rarely -triumph 

 at a lucky shot. Nothing. He gently but firmly 

 took away my rifle, reloaded it, and handed it back; 

 then waited respectfully for my next move. He 

 knew no English, and I no Swahili. 



But as time went on this attitude changed. I 

 was armed with the new Springfield rifle, a weapon 

 with 2,700 feet velocity, and with a marvellously 

 fiat trajectory. This commanding advantage, com- 



48 



