the disinterested pose as respects game. For it was a pose.
Memba Sasa was most keenly interested in game whenever it was an object
of pursuit. It did not matter how common the particular species might
be: if we wanted it, Memba Sasa would look upon it with eager ferocity;
and if we did not want it, he paid no attention to it at all. When we
started in the morning, or in the relaxation of our return at night, I
would mention casually a few of the things that might prove acceptable.

"To-morrow we want kongoni for boys' meat, or zebra; and some meat for
masters-Tommy, impala, oribi," and Memba Sasa knew as well as I did what
we needed to fill out our trophy collection. When he caught sight of one
of these animals his whole countenance changed. The lines of his face
set, his lips drew back from his teeth, his eyes fairly darted fire in
the fixity of their gaze. He was like a fine pointer dog on birds, or
like the splendid savage he was at heart.

"M'palla!" he hissed; and then after a second, in a restrained fierce
voice, "Na-ona? Do you see?"

If I did not see he pointed cautiously. His own eyes never left the
beast. Rarely he stayed put while I made the stalk. More often he glided
like a snake at my heels. If the bullet hit, Memba Sasa always exhaled
a grunt of satisfaction-"hah!"-in which triumph and satisfaction mingled
with a faint derision at the unfortunate beast. In case of a trophy he
squatted anxiously at the animal's head while I took my measurements,
assisting very intelligently with the tape line. When I had finished, he
always looked up at me with wrinkled brow.

"Footie n'gapi?" he inquired. This means literally, "How many feet?",
footie being his euphemistic invention of a word for the tape. I would
tell him how many "footie" and how many "inchie" the measurement proved
to be. From the depths of his wonderful memory he would dig up the
measurements of another beast of the same sort I had killed months back,
but which he had remembered accurately from a single hearing.

The shooting of a beast he always detailed to his few cronies in camp:
the other gunbearers, and one or two from his own tribe. He always used
the first person plural, "we" did so and so; and took an inordinate
pride in making out his bwana as being an altogether superior person to
any of the other gunbearer's bwanas. Over a miss he always looked
sad; but with a dignified sadness as though we had met with undeserved
misfortune sent by m