don't promise nothin' what he can't do. I'll have dem niggers swarmin' roun', same as follerin' a circus peerade."
These few kind words from Zack Foster, Effendi, reassured Bimbashi McDonald, who joined his friends in watching the preparations to receive them at Beni Yeb.
For miles a towering chimney had split the horizon, like the trunk of an enormous decapitated palm. Sunshine glittered on the corrugated roof of the pump-house in which they heard the whirring of wheels. An English engineer came to the door in his overalls. Shifting groups of turbans circled round a British helmet at the landing place. The man underneath the helmet wore white cotton clothes, innocent of starch, always spotless in the morning, always spattered at night; the calves of his legs were wrapped in leather, and looked remarkably solid.
"That's Cameron," said McDonald, pointing; but the Colonel would have known.
Zack clapped his hands and shouted: "Whar he!" Said instantly appeared.
"Hustle, you niggers, wid dem gripsacks." Zack gave his orders. "Us gwine to git off dis boat."
As a rule Said caught the general drift of British language, but Zack's Alfro-American lingo flunked him. And yet, having spent his life-time
