I have made inquiries here and elsewhere as to the Arabian horse. He is a comparatively scarce animal and he does not run wild in the desert, as some people suppose. Indeed, comparatively few of the Arabian tribes have horses, and the best are kept on the plateau of Najd, in the centre of the peninsula. They belong to the Anazah tribe, which is one of the oldest of all, and which claims to date back to the Flood. It is a wealthy tribe, and it has been breeding horses for many generations. The best stock has pedigrees going back to the time of Mohammed, and the very choicest come from five mares which were owned by the Prophet and blessed by him. These horses seldom go out of Arabia. They are owned by the chiefs, and are not sold, except in times of the direst necessity. Now and then a few get into Egypt and other parts of North Africa, and the Sultan of Turkey has usually had some for his stables. It is only occasionally that a pure-bred Arabian goes to Europe or the United States. Two of the best stallions we ever imported were those which General Grant brought from Constantinople. This was, I think, during his tour around the world. While in Turkey he and the Sultan visited the royal stables together. As they looked over the horses the Sultan told Grant to pick out the one he liked best, and he designated a dapple gray called the Leopard. “It is yours,” said the Sultan, “and this also,” pointing to a four-year-old colt called Linden Tree. In due time these two horses arrived in the United States and were put on General Ed Beale’s farm near Washington. They were used for breeding, and they produced about fifty fine colts. CHAPTER XXIX IN MOMBASA Mombasa is the terminus of the Uganda Railway as it comes down from Lake Victoria. It is the port of entry for all the sea-borne trade of the seven provinces of British East Africa, or Kenya Colony, as it is now called, Uganda, and adjacent territory. It is on an island halfway down the coast of East Africa and just below the Equator, where old Mother Earth is widest and thickest. If I should stick a peg down under the chair in which I am writing into the old lady’s waist, and then travel westward in a straight line I would soon reach the upper end of Lake Tanganyika, and a little later come out on the Atlantic Ocean just above the mouth of the Congo. Crossing that great sea, I should make my next landing in South America, at the mouth of the Amazon, and, going up the Amazon valley, I should pass Quito, in Ecuador, and then drop down to the Pacific. From there on the trip to the peg stuck in at Mombasa would comprise sixteen or more thousand miles of water travel. I should cross the Pacific and Indian oceans, and the only solid ground on the way would be the islands of New Guinea, Borneo, and Sumatra.