A DAY ON THE ISIOLA 



After a half hour we mounted again and rode on 

 slowly. The sun was very strong and a heavy shim- 

 mer clothed the plain. Through this shimmer we 

 caught sight of something large and black and flap- 

 ping. It looked like a crow — or, better, a scare- 

 crow — crippled, half flying, half running, with 

 waving wings or arms, now dwindling, now gigantic 

 as the mirage caught it up or let it drop. As we 

 watched, it developed, and we made it out to be a 

 porter, clad in a long, ragged black overcoat, run- 

 ning zigzag through the bushes in our direction. 



The moment we identified it we spurred our horses 

 forward. As my horse leaped, Memba Sasa snatched 

 the Springfield from my left hand and forced the 

 405 Winchester upon me. Clever Memba Sasa! 

 He no more than we knew what was up, but shrewdly 

 concluded that whatever it was it needed a heavy 

 gun. 



As we galloped to meet him, the porter stopped. 

 We saw him to be a very long-legged, raggedy youth 

 whom we had nicknamed the Marabout because of 

 his exceedingly long, lean legs, the fact that his 

 breeches were white, short and baggy, and because 

 he kept his entire head shaved close. He called him- 

 self Fundi, which means The Expert, a sufficient 

 indication of his confidence in himself. 



He waited us leaning on his safari stick, panting 



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