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

"GREAT WHITE LAKE" 405
and forbidding any man aboard to whistle, lest he
bring the wind. The poise of this paddler is a marvel,
his stroke so rhythmic and sure that he can carry on
for hours without making a false move. Late in
the afternoon we see symptoms of approach to land
not mainland, however, but rather a large unknown
island answering to the terse euphonious name of
"Tangled Isle" {Disokwe). Beyond this we sight the
real East shore, finally grounding among the reeds at
Lukanga. Stiff as buckram, we spring out of our
cramped-up canoes, and fall into Livingstone's old trail
when he came up to see Mwonga :
the Doctor's compass
and watch survey is delightfully accurate ; has a look
of plod about it. Heading North towards Kalungwizi,
we foot it many a weary mile. Then one glad day I
hear the tootling of an old cracked bugle, and, at last,
through the trees, across the flashing water, behold,
a bunch of ribbons, once the dear Jack of Old England !
All that follows in quick delirious succession is marked
on my mind with vivid distinctness, a memory for life.
Run down the slope with the innocent joy-bells of my
heart ringing, and drop into a canoe : far too excitedly,
though, for we get nearly drowned in the turbulent
crossing. Then, as in a dream, a white man, eyes dancing
with delight, grips my hand, and we can scarcely utter
a word— he from the Indian Ocean and I from the
Atlantic. Thus West and East join hands. This, be
it known, is one Bainbridge vice Kidd, who died before
my arrival—the same poor Bainbridge who was to die a