They had their own methods. After a long interval devoted strictly
to nothing, some unfathomable impulse would incite one or two or three
of the natives to tackle a trunk. At it they tugged and heaved and
pushed in the manner of ants making off with a particularly large fly or
other treasure trove, tossing it up the steep gangway to the level of
our decks. The trunks once safely bestowed, all interest, all industry,
died. We thought that finished it, and wondered why the tug did not pull
out of the way. But always, after an interval, another bright idea would
strike another native or natives. He--or they--would disappear beneath
the canvas awning over the tug's deck, to emerge shortly, carrying
almost anything, from a parasol to a heavy chest.
On close inspection they proved to be a very small people. The
impression of graceful height had come from the slenderness and justness
of their proportions, the smallness of their bones, and the upright
grace of their carriage. After standing alongside one, we acquired a
fine respect for their ability to handle those trunks at all.
Moored to the other side of the ship we found two huge lighters, from
which bales of goods were being hoisted aboard. Two camels and a dozen
diminutive mules stood in the waist of one of these craft. The camels
were as sniffy and supercilious and scornful as camels always are; and
everybody promptly hated them with the hatred of the abysmally inferior
spirit for something that scorns it, as is the usual attitude of the
human mind towards camels.
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