Its spread, however, seemed certain; and, as it was
surrounded by warehouses of valuable goods, moving was in full swing. A
frantic white man stood at the low doorway of one of these dungeon-like
stores hastening the movements of an unending string of porters. As each
emerged bearing a case on his shoulder, the white man urged him to a
trot. I followed up the street to see where these valuables were being
taken, and what were the precautions against theft. Around the next
corner, it seemed. As each excited perspiring porter trotted up, he
heaved his burden from his head or his shoulders, and promptly scampered
back for another load. They were loyal and zealous men; but their
headpieces were deficient inside. For the burdens that they saved from
the fire happened to be cases of gin in bottles. At least, it was in
bottles until the process of saving had been completed. Then it trickled
merrily down the gutter. I went back and told the frantic white man
about it. He threw up both hands to heaven and departed.
By dodging from street to street Mohammed and I succeeded in circling
the whole disturbance, and so came at length to a public square. Here
was a vast throng, and a very good place, so I climbed atop a rescued
bale of cotton the better to see.
Mombasa has no water system, but a wonderful corps of water-carriers.
These were in requisition to a man. They disappeared down through the
wide gates of the customs enclosure, their naked, muscular, light-brown
bodies gleaming with sweat, their Standard Oil cans dangling merrily at
the ends of slender poles.
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