That worthy citizen pocketed his five
rupees and was never heard from again; I do not even remember his
name nor how he looked.
I killed a buck of some sort, and Memba Sasa, as usual, stepped
forward to attend to the trophy. But I stopped him.
"Fundi," said I, "if you are a gunbearer, prepare this beast."
He stepped up confidently and set to work. I watched him closely.
He did it very well, without awkwardness, though he made one or
two minor mistakes in method.
"Have you done this before?" I inquired.
"No, bwana."
"How did you learn to do it?"
"I have watched the gunbearers when I was a porter bringing in
meat."*
*Except in the greatest emergencies a gunbearer would never
think of carrying any sort of a burden.
This was pleasing, but it would never do, at this stage of the
game, to let him think so, neither on his own account nor that of
the real gunbearers.
"You will bring in meat today also," said I, for I was indeed a
little shorthanded, "and you will learn how to make the top
incision straighter."
When we had reached camp I handed him the Springfield.
"Clean this," I told him.
He departed with it, returning it after a time for my inspection.
It looked all right. I catechized him on the method he had
employed-for high velocities require very especial
treatment-and found him letter perfect.
