isputed possession, they marked
the loads with some private sign of their own. M'ganga, the headman,
tall, fierce, big-framed and bony, clad in fez, a long black overcoat,
blue puttees and boots, stood stiff as a ramrod, extended a rigid right
arm and rattled off orders in a high dynamic voice. In his left hand he
clasped a bulgy umbrella, the badge of his dignity and the symbol of his
authority. The four askaris, big men too, with masterful high-cheekboned
countenances, rushed here and there seeing that the orders were carried
out. Expostulations, laughter, the sound of quarrelling rose and fell.
Never could the combined volume of it all override the firecracker
stream of M'ganga's eloquence.

We had nothing to do with it all, but stood a little dazed, staring at
the novel scene. Our men were of many tribes, each with its own cast
of features, its own notions of what befitted man's performance of his
duties here below. They stuck together each in its clan. A fine free
individualism of personal adornment characterized them. Every man
dressed for his own satisfaction solely. They hung all sorts of things
in the distended lobes of their ears. One had succeeded in inserting a
fine big glittering tobacco tin. Others had invented elaborate topiary
designs in their hair, shaving their heads so as to leave strange tufts,
patches, crescents on the most unexpected places. Of the intricacy of
these designs they seemed absurdly proud. Various sorts of treasure
trove hung from them-a bunch of keys to which there were no locks,
discarded hunting knives, tips of antelope horns, discharged brass
cartridges, a hundred and one valueless trifles plucked proudly from
the rubbish heap. They were all clothed. We had supplied each with a
red blanket, a blue jersey, and a water bottle. The blankets they were
twisting most ingeniously into turbans. Beside these they sported a
great variety of garments. Shooting coats that had seen better days, a
dozen shabby overcoats-worn proudly through the hottest noons-raggety
breeches and trousers made by some London tailor, queer baggy homemades
of the same persuasion, or quite simply the square of cotton cloth
arranged somewhat like a short tight skirt, or nothing at all as the
man's taste ran. They were many of them amusing enough; but somehow they
did not look entirely farcical and ridiculous, like our negroes
putting on airs. All these things were worn with a simplicity of quiet
confidence in their e