410 AFRICA SPEAKS 



As the tumult increased, I beheld a cavalcade ap- 

 proaching, under the leadership of Joe. It was our 

 rehef from the village of Dikoa and I am sure not even 

 the beleaguered British at Lucknow received their 

 rescuers with greater joy. 



Right handsomely had the Emir of the village re- 

 sponded to our appeal for assistance. He had called 

 out the army — and the navy — and himself rode at 

 its head. Mounted and afoot, the relief expedition 

 marched, the Emir astride a beautiful black horse, 

 caparisoned in trappings of gold and silver. The 

 dusky monarch himself was attired in flowing robes 

 of purple-and-blue silk, elaborately gold-braided and 

 hung with jewels. He was a colorful, indeed gorgeous, 

 figure, but quite matter-of-fact regarding the business 

 at hand. At a word from him, the army halted, the 

 natives surrounded the bogged truck, and, while the 

 band tooted away for dear life, the husky blacks lifted 

 the truck bodily and placed it on dry land. 



Amid wild shouts and good-natured banter we were 

 escorted to the village, a pretentious place of ornate 

 mud houses of Arabian architecture. A high wall 

 encircled the town and we halted at the main gate, 

 where the Emir rode up to me and gravely shook 

 hands. * I bade good-by to this African potentate with 

 a real feeling of gratitude. 



For a few miles after leaving the village, we motored 

 over sand which had been hardened by the rains, but 

 twenty miles before reaching Maidugari, we arrived at 

 the edge of what looked like a lake, into which the 

 wheel tracks disappeared. After a consultation we came 

 to the conclusion that the road must run through this 

 pond, and nothing remained but to try our luck. If 



