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And Herbert, listening to all this with a painful, strained intensity, would catch the six-key words, and would falter forth a trembling "N'dio bwana." Somewhere down deep within Herbert Spencer's make up, however, was a sense of moral duty. When we finally broke camp for good, on the great hill of Lucania, Herbert Spencer, relieved from his job, bolted like a shot.
He turned to exchange guns with Mali-ya-bwana. "N'dio, bwana," assented the latter to a speech of which he understood not one word. Mali-ya-bwana was secretly a little proud of himself for having stuck like a gun bearer, instead of shinning up a thorn tree like a porter. Kingozi slipped a cartridge into the rifle, and the two resumed their walk toward the kopje.
"Whoever it is will be a nuisance a damn nuisance!" he concluded. "N'dio, bwana," came Mali-ya-bwana's cheerful response to this speech in a language strange to him. "You have asked a true question," Kingozi shifted to Swahili. "Where is potio to be had for so large a safari? Trouble much trouble!" He arose from the flat stone. "We will go and talk with this safari."
Mali-ya- bwana was left sufficiently armed by Winkleman's weapon and the sixteen cartridges captured on his person. By the water-hole Simba found the safari encamped. At sight of his khaki- clad figure several men ran to meet him. Their countenances were of a cast unfamiliar to Simba. He looked at them calmly. "Does some one speak Swahili?" he inquired. "N'dio!" they assented in chorus.
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