George and I went out in the forenoon to try and shoot hippo in the Sagana, which was only an hour’s walk from the camp. On reaching a likely pool, I sat down on the bank to watch. George had turned very sick again on the way, and laid down under a shady tree. I shot two hippo in the water, but they sank, and though I sent men down the river to watch the shallows, I never saw any more of them. There were a lot of guinea-fowl about, so I sent back to camp for my shot-gun. George was feeling so queer that he went back also. When my gun arrived, I had a good time among the guinea-fowl, securing eight in an hour or so. I also got a partridge, which turned up in a—for it—inopportune moment. When I got back to camp, I found that El Hakim had been highly successful in his marketing, and had obtained a large quantity of food, mostly mwele, muhindi, and some viazi. For our own consumption we had laid in a stock of muhindi cobs, maragua beans, and some butter. The butter was snow-white, but, being made from curdled milk, was very acid and unpalatable. The natives always drink their milk sour; they do not understand our preference for fresh milk. Another thing that tends to make their milk unpopular with European travellers is the dirty state of the vessels it is kept in. They are made from gourds which have had the inside cleaned out by the simple process of burning it out with hot ashes, which gives the milk a nasty charred flavour. The finished milk vessel is called a “kibuyu.” I have been told that they stir the freshly drawn milk with a charred stick from the fire, to preserve it, but I never saw it done. The Masai especially are very bad offenders in this respect. The old women who milk the cows invariably wash out the empty vessels with another fluid from the same animal, certainly never intended by nature for that purpose. If the milk is intended for sale to the “wasungu” (white men), it is more often than not adulterated in the same nauseous manner. We lunched on some of the guinea-fowl I had shot in the forenoon. Ramathani somehow boiled them tender. Afterwards we held a “shaurie” (council), at which old Manga and many of his elders attended. We wanted all the information we could obtain about our road northward, the districts we should have to pass through, and the position of the various streams and camping-places.