They travelled by the intermediate class--the third of the four classes into which passengers on the Uganda railway are divided. Mr. Halliday, as he said, had not come out to Africa for the fun of it and having spent considerably over £100 already in travelling expenses, he was not inclined to spend more was absolutely necessary now. By travelling intermediate, unusual though it was, they saved nearly a hundred rupees (the currency of British East Africa) on the first-class fare, and twenty-five on the second, and every rupee they could save would be of importance when they came to stock their ranch. "And I haven’t taken return tickets, John," said Mr. Halliday. Since the boy had been named David after his father, and had no other name, it is necessary to explain how he came to be called John. At school, his name being David, on the principle of association of ideas he was immediately dubbed Jonathan, though he might just as reasonably have been called Saul. Jonathan being too long was cut down to Johnny, and finally to John; and when one of his school-fellows, on a visit in the holidays, addressed him by this simple monosyllable, the name was laughingly accepted by his parents as an excellent means of distinguishing between the two Davids. People who knew him only as John were puzzled when he signed himself "D. Halliday," and one matter-of-fact lady was not quite pleased when he said gravely that, Prince Edward being known in the family circle as David, it was only right that David Halliday should be known as John. "I am glad I am not your godmother," she replied grimly. John, then, as we, like all his intimates, will call him, smiled affectionately when he saw his father settle himself to slumber, and devoted his own very wide-awake eyes to the scenery. It was a feast for the senses and the imagination. The train, leaving Mombasa island for the mainland, runs through a tract of undulating richly-wooded country, with, here, groves of cocoa-nut palms and papaws; there, orchards of mangoes and cashew apples; anon, vast plantations of maize and millet and other grain crops. There is plenty of time to take in the details of this luxuriant panorama, for the train is climbing, climbing always, and the traveller is not whirled along at the bewildering speed of an English express. Leaning out of the window, and looking back over the route, John catches a last glimpse of the sea at Port Reitz, guarded by the Shimba hills, and realizes that a new chapter in his life is opening, full of romantic possibilities. "A verree fine country, sir," says a thin staccato voice behind, and turning, he is smiled upon by a swarthy face, with black moustache and beard that have never known a razor, and surmounted by a spotless white turban. "Magnificent," replies John, eyeing his fellow-passenger curiously.