n sole charge. He understood a little
Swahili, and talked a few words of something he intended for that
language. By means of our mutual accomplishment in that tongue, and
through a more efficient sign language, I got him to understand the plan
of campaign. It was very simple. I squatted down inside the rape, while
he went around the other side to scare them up.

The white birds uttered their peculiarly derisive cackle at the old man
and flapped over to my side. Then they were certainly an astonished
lot of birds. I gave them both barrels and dropped a pair; got two more
shots as they swung over me and dropped another pair, and brought down a
straggling single as a grand finale. The flock, with shrill, derogatory
remarks, flew in an airline straight away. They never deviated, as far
as I could follow them with the eye. Even after they had apparently
disappeared, I could catch an occasional flash of white in the sun.

Now the old gentleman came whooping around with long, undignified bounds
to fall on his face and seize my foot in an excess of gratitude. He rose
and capered about, he rushed out and gathered in the slain one by one
and laid them in a pile at my feet. Then he danced a jig-step around
them and reviled them, and fell on his face once more, repeating the
word "Bwana! bwana! bwana!" over and over-"Master! master! master!" We
returned to camp together, the old gentleman carrying the birds, and
capering about like a small boy, pouring forth a flood of his sort of
Swahili, of which I could understand only a word here and there. Memba
Sasa, very dignified and scornful of such performances, met us halfway
and took my gun. He seemed to be able to understand the old fellow's
brand of Swahili, and said it over again in a brand I could understand.
From it I gathered that I was called a marvellously great sultan, a
protector of the poor, and other Arabian Nights titles.

The birds proved to be white egrets. Now at home I am strongly against
the killing of these creatures, and have so expressed myself on many
occasions. But, looking from the beautiful white plumage of these
villainous mauraders, to the wrinkled countenance of the grateful weary
old savage, I could not fan a spark of regret. And from the straight
line of their retreating flight I like to think that the rest of the
flock never came back, but took their toll from the wider fields of the
plateau above.

Next day we reentered the game-haunted wilderness, no