Thinking black; 22 years without a break in the long grass of Central ...

"GREAT WHITE LAKE" 403
But let us continue our voyage. Gliding past
these birds, a huge aviary that beggars all description,
on and on we fare ; then somebody spies certain
suspicious specks of black far out to sea—Shimba's
scouts, probably. At this point there is much ambiguous
whispering, then a mild mutiny breaks out as to whether
we dare push on. Ten, twenty, and thirty minutes pass,
and now the black hulls of the canoes are seen bearing
down on us for all the world like tiny torpedo-boats : the
leading log makes straight for my boat, a miniature
replica of the old sailor's print of the Arethusa bearing
up to engage the Belle Poule. But it is a mere scare
these are Arab scouts who sail up quite close, offering the
Fontenoy privilege of first shot, then, having verified
who and where we are, away they dart back to report at
headquarters in the island. The result of that encounter
was as sad and sorry a thing for me as could well happen.
For when Shimba saw that we had given him the slip he
swore a sudden vengeance, put to sea with a flotilla of
dug-outs, cut across Lake to my old fisher-friend who
grudgingly gave me the canoes yesterday, burned his
village to the ground and dragged him off in chains.
Not much cause for congratulation here : my visit has
been a visitation—see, away in the distance the village
in flames ! Can you wonder at that old man for years
and years shooting an envenomed glance at the very
mention of my name? What a monstrous enigma it
must have seemed to him, my preaching of peace and
claiming to be an ambassador thereof, whereas the net