\ 



A FIAT TOWN 



propelled by a tall, solemn, fine-looking black man 

 in white robe and cap; the driver of a high cart tools 

 his animal past a creaking, clumsy, two-wheeled 

 wagon drawn by a pair of small humpbacked native 

 oxen. And so it goes, all day long, without end. 

 The public rickshaw boys just across the way chatter 

 and game and quarrel and keep a watchful eye out 

 for a possible patron on whom to charge vociferously 

 at full tilt. Two or three old-timers with white 

 whiskers and red faces continue to slaughter thou- 

 sands and thousands and thousands of lions from 

 the depths of their easy chairs. 



The stone veranda of that hotel is a very interest- 

 ing place. Here gather men from all parts of East 

 Africa, from Uganda, and the jungles of the Upper 

 Congo. At one time or another all the famous 

 hunters drop into its canvas chairs — Cuninghame, 

 Allan Black, Judd, Outram, Hoey, and the others; 

 white traders with the natives of distant lands; 

 owners of farms experimenting bravely on a greater 

 or lesser scale in a land whose difficulties are just 

 beginning to be understood; great naturalists and 

 I scientists from the governments of the earth, eager 

 to observe and collect in this interesting and teeming 

 fauna; and sportsmen just out and full of inter- 

 est or just returned and modestly important. More 

 absorbing conversation can be listened to on this 



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