Nevertheless, he
follows his master in, and he stands by. If the hunter fails, the
gunbearer will probably die. To me it is rather fine: for he does
it, not from the personal affection and loyalty which will carry
men far, but from a sheer sense of duty and pride of caste. The
quiet pride of the really good men, like Memba Sasa, is easy to
understand.
And the records are full of stories of the white man who has not
made good: of the coward who bolts, leaving his black man to take
the brunt of it, or who sticks but loses his head. Each new
employer must be very closely and interestedly scrutinized. In
the light of subsequent experience, I can no longer wonder at
Memba Sasa's first detached and impersonal attitude.
As time went on, however, and we grew to know each other better,
this attitude entirely changed. At first the change consisted
merely in dropping 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.
