African Game Trails 
9 
clouds tore asunder, to right 
and left, and the mountain 
towered between, while 
across its base was flung a 
radiant arch. But almost 
at once the many-colored 
glory was dimmed; for its 
splendor and terror the 
storm strode in front, and 
shrouded all things from 
sight in thunder-shattered 
sheets of rain. 
These days alone in the 
wilderness went by very 
pleasantly, and, as it was for 
not too long, I thoroughly 
enjoyed being entirely by 
myself, so far as white men 
were concerned. By this 
time I had become really at¬ 
tached to my native follow¬ 
ers, who looked after my in¬ 
terest and comfort in every 
way; and in return I kept 
them supplied with plenty 
of food, saw that they were 
well clothed, and forced 
them to gather enough fire¬ 
wood to keep their tents 
dry and warm at night—for 
cold, rainy weather is al¬ 
ways hard upon them. 
Ali, my faithful head tent 
boy, and Shemlani his assistant—poor Bill 
the Kikuyu had left because of an intricate 
row with his fellows—were both, as they 
proudly informed me, Arabs. On the East 
African coast the so-called Arabs almost all 
have native blood in them and speak Swa¬ 
hili; the curious, newly created language of 
the descendants of the natives whom the 
Arabs originally enslaved, and who them¬ 
selves may have in their veins a little Arab 
blood; in fact, the dividing line between 
Swahili and Arab becomes impracticable 
for an outsider to draw where, as is gener¬ 
ally 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 Shemlani were de¬ 
voted 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 tie called idiomatic. One day 
we saw two ostriches, a cock and a hen, 
with their chicks, and Bakhari with some 
excitement 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-bye! ” Gouvimali was a 
Wkamba, as were Simba and my other 
sais, M’nyassa, who had taken the place of 
Hamisi (Hamisi had broken down in 
health, his legs, as he assured me, becom¬ 
ing “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 men¬ 
tion 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 Mo- 
