In the course of the evening Winkleman, conceiving that the right moment had come, set himself seriously to establishing a dominance over these members of an inferior race. He was a skilled man at this, none more so; nevertheless he failed. For in the persons of Simba and Mali-ya-bwana he was dealing not with natives, but with another white man as shrewd and experienced as himself. Kingozi had from the abundance of his knowledge foreseen exactly what methods and arguments the Bavarian would use, and in his final instructions he had dramatized almost exactly the scene that was now taking place. Simba had his replies ready made for him. When an unexpected argument caught him unaware, he merely fingered surreptitiously his magic bone, and remained serenely silent. Winkleman might as well have talked at a stone wall. He soon recognized this, as also that the man had been coached minutely.

"Who is your _bwana?_" he asked at length.

"He is a very great _bwana_," Simba replied.

"His name?"

"He has many names among many people."

"What name do you call him?"

"I call him _bwana m'kubwa_ (great master)," replied Simba blandly.

Winkleman gave up this tack and tried another.

"What is his business? What does he do here?"

"His business is to fight."

"Ah!" ejaculated Winkleman. "To fight!"

"Yes. His business is to fight the elephant."

Winkleman swore. He could get at nothing this way. He must give his mind to escape.

Early the next morning Simba started. He took with him, of course, his magic bone; but, like a canny general, he carried also the rifle. Mali-ya- bwana was left sufficiently armed by Winkleman's weapon and the sixteen cartridges captured on his person.

By the water-hole Simba found the safari encamped. At sight of his khaki- clad figure several men ran to meet him. Their countenances were of a cast unfamiliar to Simba. He looked at them calmly.

"Does some one speak Swahili?" he inquired.

"_N'dio!_" they assented in chorus.

Simba looked about him. This was indeed a great safari, and a rich _bwana_. The tent, of green canvas, was what is known as a "four-man tent"; that is, it took four men to carry it. The pile of loads in the centre of the cleared space was high. There were three tin boxes and many chop boxes among them.

The group moved slowly across the open space, stared at by curious eyes, and came to a halt before a drill tent slightly larger than the little kennels assigned to the ordinary porters. Here over a fire bubbled a _sufuria_, the African cooking pot, tended by a naked small boy. A clean mat woven in bright colours carpeted the ground; on this all seated themselves.

It would be tedious to relate each step of the ensuing negotiations. These simple Africans would have needed no instruction from civilization to carry on the most long-winded submarine controversy in the most approved and circuitous manner. At the end of one solid hour of grave and polite exchange it developed that the white man was not at present in camp. Somewhat later Simba permitted it to be understood that his own white man was not in the immediate neighbourhood. These gems of knowledge were separated by much leisurely chatter, and occasional and liberal dippings into the _sufuria_. And thus was the beginning and the end of the first day.

At noon of the second day, after a refreshing night's sleep, Simba moved up his forces.

"Your white man is known to me," said he.

Some one remarked appropriately.

"He is a prisoner in my camp."

"In the camp of your white man."

"In my camp. I myself have taken him prisoner," insisted Simba.

"You are telling lies," said the headman of the safari.

Simba took this calmly. In Africa to call a man a liar is no insult.

"It is the truth," said he. "With my own hands I took him; and he lies bound in my camp."

"These are lies," persisted the headman. "How can such things be? That you took a white man, a great _bwana?_ That is foolishness. That has never been and could never be. How could you accomplish such a feat?"

"I have a magic."

"Ho!" cried the headman derisively. "Everybody knows that a magic is not good against the white man. That has been tried many times!"

"This is a white man's magic."

The statement made a visible impression.

"Let us see it," they demanded.

But Simba refused. He was entirely at ease. In his ordinary habit he would have become excited over being doubted, he would have wrangled, have shouted--in short, would have been but one unit among many equals. But the possession of the magic bone gave him a confidence from outside himself. For the time being he slipped genuinely into the attitude of the white man; became a super-Simba, as it were. This dignity and sureness commenced to have its effect. Almost they began to believe that Simba's words might be true!

At three o'clock the battle closed in.

"My men need _potio_" said Simba. "Let ten loads be put aside, and let ten of these _shenzis_ be told to carry them where I shall say."

But the headman leaped to his feet.

"Who are you to give orders?" he cried. "These things belong to my white man."

"Your white man is my property," replied Simba superbly; and with no further parley he shot the headman dead.

Here indeed showed the super-Simba. The dispute might in the ordinary course of events have come to shooting; but only after hours of excited wrangling, and as a climax worked up to in a crescendo of emotion. This expeditious nipping in the bud was a thoroughly white-manly proceeding.

The headman whirled about under the impact of the high-power bullet at so close a range, and collapsed face down. Simba sat calmly in his place. He did not even trouble to place himself in a better defensive attitude against possible attack. His confidence in his magic bone was growing to sublimity as he noted how efficiently it carried him through every crisis. All over the camp the porters, startled, leaped to their feet. But at the headmen's fire no one moved. They would ordinarily have been afraid neither of Simba nor Simba's weapons. Firearms were familiar to them. The usual sequence to Simba's deed would have been an immediately defunct Simba. But his serene confidence in his magic caught their credulity.

The white man's _prestige_ and privileges were invested in him.

"Yours is undoubtedly a great magic," said Winkleman's gun bearer politely. "Let us talk."

They talked at great length, without bothering to remove the dead headman. The result was finally a continued respect for Simba, his magic bone, and his ready rifle; but a lingering though polite incredulity as to the matter of Winkleman--_Bwana_ Nyele. It was possible that Simba had killed the latter, of course. But to have taken him alive--and to be holding him prisoner----

It was suggested that the various upper men of this safari accompany Simba to the place of incarceration. Declined for obvious reasons. Proposition modified to exclude all visitors but one. Still declined.

The debate summarized in the above short paragraph consumed six hours. What is time in the face of an African eternity? And in Africa, as every one knows, the feeling of eternity is an accompaniment of every-day life.

After some refreshments the sitting rose. Simba did not spend the night in camp. That did not seem to him wise. Instead he withdrew to a place he had already marked, deftly built himself a withe platform in the spread of an acacia, and slept soundly above the danger line.

Next morning the discussion was resumed. It w............