THE LAND OF FOOTPRINTS 



And there is no more water for a long day's 



journey." 



"You are liars," we observed politely. 



"And near is the village of our chief, who is a 

 great warrior, and will bring you many presents; the 

 greatest man in these parts." 



"Now you're getting to it," we observed in Eng- 

 lish; "you want trade." Then in Swahili, "We shall 

 march two hours longer." 



After a few polite phrases they went away. We 

 finished lunch, remounted, and rode up the trail. 

 At the edge of the canon we came to a wide clearing, 

 at the farther side of which was evidently the village 

 in question. But the merry villagers, down to the 

 last toto, were drawn up at the edge of the track in a 

 double line through which we rode. They were very 

 wealthy savages, and wore it all. Bright neck, arm, 

 and leg ornaments, yards and yards of cowry shells 

 in strings, blue beads of all sizes (blue beads were 

 evidently "in"), odd scraps and shapes of embroi- 

 dered skins, clean shaves and a beautiful polish char- 

 acterized this holiday gathering. We made our 

 royal progress between the serried ranks. About 

 eight or ten seconds after we had passed the last vil- 

 lager — just the proper dramatic pause, you ob- 

 serve — the bushes parted and a splendid straight 

 springy young man came into view and stepped 



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