278 
AFRICAN GAME TRAILS 
Arab blood; in fact, the dividing line between Swahili 
and Arab becomes impracticable for an outsider to draw 
where, as is generally the case, it is patent that the blood of 
both races is mixed to a degree at which it is only possible 
to guess. Ali spoke some English; and he and Shem- 
lani were devoted and efficient servitors. Bakhari the gun- 
bearer was a Swahili, quite fearless with dangerous game, 
rather sullen, and unmoved by any emotion that I could 
ever discover. He spoke a little English, but it could not be 
called idiomatic. One day we saw two ostriches, a cock 
and a hen, with their chicks, and Bakhari with some ex¬ 
citement said, ‘‘Look, sah! ostrich! bull, cow, and pups!’^ 
The other gun-bearer, Gouvimali, in some ways an even 
better hunter, and always good-tempered, knew but one 
English phrase; regularly every afternoon or evening, after 
cleaning the rifle he had carried, he would say, as he left 
the tent, his face wreathed in smiles, “G-o-o-d-e-byeT’ 
Gouvimali was a Wakamba, as were Simba and my other 
sais, Mffiyassa, who had taken the place of Hamisi (Hamisi 
had broken down in health, his legs, as he assured me, 
becoming “very sick”). The cook, Roberti, was a mission 
boy, a Christian; we had several Christians with the safari, 
one being a headman, and all did excellently. I mention 
this because one so often hears it said that mission boys turn 
out worthless. Most of our men were heathens;. and of 
course many, both of the Christians and the Moham¬ 
medans, were rather thinly veneered with the religions they 
respectively professed. 
When in the morning we started on our hunt my gun- 
bearers and sais, and the skinners, if any were along, 
walked silently behind me, on the lookout for game. Re- 
