The blanket he crossed bandolier fashion on one shoulder. It
hung down behind like a tasselled sash. His face was little and wizened
and old. He was quiet and uncomplaining, and the "easy mark" for all the
rest. We had constantly to be interfering to save him from imposition as
to too heavy loads, too many jobs, and the like. Nearing the close of
the long expedition, when our loads were lighter and fewer, one day C.
spoke up.
"I'm going to give the old man a good time," said he. "I doubt if he's
ever had one before, or if he ever will again. He's that sort of a meek
damnfool."
So it was decreed that Kimau[20] should carry nothing for the rest of
the trip, was to do no more work, was to have all he wanted to eat. It
was a treat to see him. He accepted these things without surprise,
without spoken thanks; just as he would have accepted an increased
supply of work and kicks. Before his little fire he squatted all day,
gazing vacantly off into space, or gnawing on a piece of the meat he
always kept roasting on sticks. He spoke to no one; he never smiled or
displayed any obvious signs of enjoyment; but from him radiated a
feeling of deep content.
His companion savage was a young blood, and still affected by the
vanities of life. His hair he wore in short tight curls, resembling the
rope hair of a French poodle, liberally anointed with castor-oil and
coloured with red-paint clay.
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