We had left the ticket office far behind, but the train was moving
slowly and there was still a good length of platform before our car
would be clear of the station altogether. We heard a roar like a
bull's from behind, and a dozen men--white, black and yellow--came
careering down the platform carrying guns, baggage, bedding, and all
the paraphernalia that travelers in Africa affect.

First in the van was Georges Coutlass, showing a fine turn of speed but
tripping on a bed-sheet at every other step, with his uncased rifle in
one hand, his hat in the other, an empty bandolier over one shoulder
and a bag slung by a strap swinging out behind him. He made a leap for
the second-class compartment in front of us, and landed on all fours on
the platform. We opened the door of our compartment to watch him
better.

Once on the platform he threw his rifle into the compartment and braced
himself to catch the things his stampeding followers hurled after
him--caught them deftly and tossed them in, yelling instructions in
Greek, Kiswahili, Arabic, English, and two or three other languages.
It may be that the engineer looked back and saw what was happening (or
perhaps the guard signaled with the cord that passed through eyeholes
the whole length of the train) for though we did not slow down we
gained no speed until all his belongings had been hurled, and caught,
and flung inside. Then came his traveling companions--caught by one
hand and dragged on their knees up the steps. They were heavy men, but
he snatched all three in like a boy pulling chestnuts from the fire.

The first was a Greek--evil-looking, and without the spirit that in the
case of Coutlass made a stranger prone to over-look
shortcomings--dressed in khaki, with rifle and empty bandolier. Next,
chin, elbow, hand and knee up the steps came a fat, tough-looking
Goanese, dressed anyhow at all in pink-colored dirty shirt, dark pants,
and a helmet, also with rifle and empty bandolier. I judged he weighed
about two hundred and eighty pounds, but Coutlass yanked him in like a
fish coming overside. Last came a man who might be Arab, or part-Arab,
part-Swahili, whom I did not recognize at first, fat, black, dressed in
the white cotton garments and red fez of the more or less well-to-do
native, and voluble with rare profanity.

"Johnson!" shouted Fred with almost the joy of greeting an old
acquaintance.

It was Hassan, sure enough, short-winded and afraid, but more af