Brown of Lumbwa. That's my name, gents, and I know, because I
tried! Thought I was sound asleep, didn't you! Well, I weren't!
Listen to me, what happens. You start off. They get wind of it. They
send the police helter-skelter hot-foot after you--native police--no
officer--Masai they are, an' I tell you those Masai can make their
sixty miles a day when they're minded an' no bones about it either!
Maybe the Masai catches you and maybe not. S'posing they do they can't
do much. They've merely a letter with 'em commanding you to return at
once and report at the gov'ment office. And o' course--bein' ignorant,
same as me, an' hot-headed, an' eager--you treat that contumelious an'
tip the Masai the office to go to hell. Which they do forthwith.
They're so used to bein' told to go to hell by wishful wanderers that
they scarcely trouble to wait for the words. Presently they draw a
long breath an' go away again like smoke being blowed downwind. An'
you proceed onward, dreamin' dreams o' gold an' frankincense an'
freedom."

"Well, what next?" said I, for he made a long pause, either for
reminiscence or because of headache.

"Whisky next!" he answered. "I left a little for the morning, didn't
I? I almost always do. Hold the bottle up to the light--no, no,
you'll spill it!--pass it here! Ah-h-h--gug-gug!"

He finished what was left and tried to hurl the empty bottle through
the window, but missed and smashed it against the woodwork.

"'Sapity!" he murmured. "Means bad luck, that does! Poor ole Brown o'
Lumbwa--poor ole fella'. Pick up the pieces, boys! Pick 'em up
quick--might get some o' poor ole Brown's bad luck--cut yourselves or
what not. Pick 'em up careful now!"

We did, and it took ten minutes, for the splinters were scattered
everywhere.

"Next time you do a thing like that you shall get out an' walk!"
announced Fred.

"That 'ud be only my usual luck!" he answered mournfully. "But I was
tellin' how you notify the Masai police to go to hell, an' they oblige.
It's the last obligin' anybody does for you. Every native's a bush
telegraph--every sleepy-seemin' one of 'em! They know tracks in an'
out through the scrub that ain't on maps, an' they get past you day or
night wi'out you knowin' it, an' word goes on ahead o' you--precedes
you as the sayin' is. You come to a village. You need milk, food,
Porters maybe, an' certainly inf'mation about the trail ahead. You
ask. Nobody answers. They let