THE LAST FRONTIER 



chested man, with a lofty air of fierce pride. He 

 and his handful of soldiers alone of the natives, ex- 

 cept the Somalis and syces, dwelt within the com- 

 pound in a group of huts near the gate. There 

 when off duty they might be seen polishing their 

 arms, or chatting with their women. The latter 

 were ladies of leisure, with wonderful chignons, 

 much jewellery, and patterned Mericani wrapped 

 gracefully about their pretty figures. 



By the time we had seen all these things it was 

 noon. We ate lunch. The various members of the 

 party decided to do various things. I elected to go 

 out with McMillan while he killed a wildebeeste; 

 and I am very glad I did. It was a most astonish- 

 ing performance. 



You must imagine us driving out the gate in a 

 buckboard behind four small but lively white Abys- 

 sinian mules. In the front seat were Michael, the 

 Hottentot driver, and McMillan's Somali gun- 

 bearer. In the rear seat were McMillan and my- 

 self, while a small black syce perched precariously 

 behind. Our rifles rested in a sling before us. So 

 we jogged out on the road to Long Juju, examining 

 with a critical eye the herds of game to right and 

 left of us. The latter examined us, apparently, 

 with an eye as critical. Finally, in a herd of zebra, 

 we espied a lone wildebeeste. 



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