“Having disposed of my usual number of ‘Yambos’ for the morning I begin to feel ‘peckish,’ as the sea skipper says, and Feragji, the cook, and youthful Kalulu, the chief butler, are again called and told to bring ‘chukula’--food. This is the breakfast put down on the table at the hour of ten punctually every morning:--Tea (ugali) a native porridge made out of the flour of dourra, holcus sorghum, or matama, as it is called here; a dish of rice and curry. Unyanyembe is famous for its rice, fried goat’s meat, stewed goat’s meat, roast goat’s meat, a dish of sweet potatoes, a few ‘slapjacks’ or specimens of the abortive efforts of Feragji to make dampers or pancakes, to be eaten with honey. But neither Feragji’s culinary skill nor Kalulu’s readiness to wait on me can tempt me to eat. I have long ago eschewed food, and only drink tea, milk and yaourt--Turkish word for ‘clabber’ or clotted milk. “After breakfast the soldiers are called, and together we begin to pack the bales of cloth, string beads and apportion the several loads which the escort must carry to Ujiji some way or another. Carriers come to test the weight of the loads and to inquire about the inducements offered by the ‘Muzungu.’ The inducements are in the shape of so many pieces of cloth, four yards long, and I offered double what any Arab ever offered. Some are engaged at once, others say they will call again, but they never do, and it is of no use to expect them when there is war, for they are the cowardliest people under the sun. “Since we are going to make forced marches I must not overload my armed escort, or we shall be in a pretty mess two or three days after we start; so I am obliged to reduce all loads by twenty pounds, to examine my kit and personal baggage carefully, and put aside anything that is not actually and pressingly needed; all the ammunition is to be left behind except one hundred rounds to each man. No one must fire a shot without permission, or waste his ammunition in any way, under penalty of a heavy fine for every charge of powder wasted. These things require time and thought, for the HERALD Expedition has a long and far journey to make. It intends to take a new road--a road with which few Arabs are acquainted--despite all that Skeikh, the son of Nasib, can say against the project. “It is now the dinner hour, seven P. M. Feragji has spread himself out, as they say. He has all sorts of little fixings ready, such as indigestible dampers, the everlasting ugali, or porridge, the sweet potatoes, chicken, and roast quarter of a goat; and lastly, a custard, or something just as good, made out of plantains. At eight P. M. the table is cleared, the candles are lit, pipes are brought out, and Shaw, my white man is invited to talk. But poor Shaw is sick and has not a grain or spirit of energy left in him. All I can do or say does not cheer him up in the least. He hangs down his head, and with many a sigh declares his inability to proceed with me to Ujiji.”