They muttered something that might be interpreted
"What's fun to you is death to us." I comforted them with the assurance
that this was an English climate on a midsummer day. If my clothed Arabs
suffered from cold, where was my naked guide? He was the most pitiable
object I ever saw; with teeth chattering and knees knocking together
with cold, he crouched under the imaginary shelter of a large tamarind
tree; he was no longer the clean black that had started as my guide, but
the cold and wet had turned him grey, and being thin, he looked like an
exaggerated slate-pencil. Not wishing to discourage my men, I
unselfishly turned back just as I was beginning to enjoy myself, and my
people regarded me as we do the Polar bear at the Zoological Gardens,
who begins to feel happy on the worst day in our English winter.
We returned home by a different route, not being able to find the path
in the trackless state of the country during the storm. There were in
some places unmistakeable evidences of the presence of elephants, and I
resolved to visit the spot again. I returned to the tent at 4 P.M.
satisfied that sport was to be had.
On my arrival at camp I found the natives very excited at the appearance
of rain, which they firmly believed had been called specially by their
chief. All were busy preparing their molotes (iron hoes), fitting new
handles, and getting everything ready for the periodical sowing of their
crop.
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