I say consider that under these conditions the man is cheerful. Nay, he is more. He is full of quips and jokes … at the expense of his companions, and quite as much at the expense of himself. If you have a special peculiarity about you, ten to one he crystallises it into a name, and henceforth you are spoken of not as the “Baturi” the White man, but as “the man with a back like a camel,” or “white hair,” or the “hump-backed man of war,” or “red pepper,” or “hot water,” or as the “man with a face like a woman,” and so on. It is this extraordinary cheeriness which appeals to the average white human. That a creature of flesh and blood like yourself, carrying sixty pounds on his head for hours and hours in the blazing sun, dripping with perspiration, pestered by flies, and earning sixpence a day—threepence of which is supposed to be spent in “chop”—and doing this not for one day, but for day after day, sometimes for over a week without a sit-down, can remain cheerful—that is the incredible thing. One hopes that it is a lesson. Assuredly it ought to be an inspiration. These votaries of Mark Tapley are severely tried at times. Yesterday, after a tramp from six-thirty to half-past twelve, the camp aimed for was found to be tenanted by other white men and their carriers. There was nothing for it but to push on another eleven miles to the nearest village and stream. Just as dusk began to sweep down upon the land, the first carrier straggled in—smiling. “No. 1,” a long-limbed man with the stride of an ostrich, who always goes by that name because he is always the first to arrive, delighted at having kept up his reputation; “Nos. 2” and “3” equally pleased with themselves for being close at his heels, and coming in for their share of the prize money in consequence. And then, in twos and threes, dribbling up, some unutterably weary, others less so, all galvanised into new life by a chance joke, generally at their own expense; joining in the acclamation which invariably greets the strong man of the party—the mighty Maiduguli, to wit—who, because of his muscles, carries the heaviest load, and whom Fate decrees, owing to that load’s contents, shall be the last to start, both at the opening of the day and after the breakfast halt, but who manages to forge ahead, and to turn up among the first six, chaffing the tired ones on their way, and stimulating them to fresh exertions. And when all had reached their destination they had to stick up a tent by the light of the moon.