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It was one of the common porters a tall, too slender savage, with armlets of polished iron, long, ropy hair a typical shenzi. His load was missing: evidently one of the askaris had taken it up. Kingozi's safari filed by, each man gazing in turn without expression at the huddled heap. Only Maulo, the camp jester, hurled a facetious comment at the corpse.
Maulo, the camp humourist, declaimed loudly at the top of his lungs, mocking the marabouts, the buzzards, the vultures great and small, the kites and the eagles. "Go to the lion," he cried, "he kills much, and leaves. Little meat will you get here. We keep what we get!" And the men broke into meaningless but hearty laughter, as though at brilliant wit.
Of the wildebeeste remained only a trampled bloody space and bones picked clean. The jackals crept forward at last. So brief a time did all this occupy that Maulo, looking back, saw them. "Ho, little dogs!" he cried with one of his great empty laughs; "your stomachs will go hollow but you can fill your noses!"
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