“Ah, yes! if you Wasungu” (white men) “are desirous of throwing away your lives, it is no reason we Arabs should. We travel little by little to get ivory and slaves, and are years about it—it is now nine years since I left Zanzibar—but you white men only look for rivers and lakes and mountains, and you spend your lives for no reason, and to no purpose. Look at that old man who died in Bisa! What did he seek year after year, until he became so old that he could not travel? He had no money, for he never gave any of us anything, he bought no ivory or slaves, yet he travelled farther than any of us, and for what?” “I know I have no right to expect you to risk your life for me. I only wish you to accompany me sixty days’ journey, then leave me to myself. If sixty days’ journey is too far, half that distance will do; all I am anxious for is my people. You know the Wangwana are easily swayed by fear, but if they hear that Tippu-Tib has joined me, and is about to accompany me, every man will have a lion’s courage.” “Well, I will think of it to-night, and hold a shauri with my relatives and principal people, and to-morrow night we will have another talk.” The next evening, at about eight o’clock, Hamed bin Mohammed, or Tippu- Tib, appeared with his cousin, Mohammed bin Sayid, and others, to confer upon the important business broached the evening before, and, after the usual courteous and ceremonious greetings, I was requested to state my intentions. “I would like to go down the river in canoes until I reach the place where the river turns for good either to the west or east.” “How many days’ journey on land would that be?” asked Tippu-Tib. “I don’t know. Do you?” “No; indeed, I was never in that direction; but I have a man here who has reached farthest of all.” “Where is he?” “Speak, Abed, son of Jumah, what you know of this river,” said Tippu- Tib. The son of Jumah, thus urged by his superior, spoke and said, “Yes, I know all about the river, El hamd ul illah!” (“the thanks be to God”). “In which direction does it flow, my friend?” “It flows north.” “And then?” “It flows north.” “And then?” “Still north!” “Come, my friend, speak; whither does it flow after reaching the north?” “Why, master,” replied he, with a bland smile of wonder at my apparent lack of ready comprehension, “don’t I tell you it flows north, and north, and north, and there is no end to it? I think it reaches the salt sea, at least some of my friends say so.” “Well, in which direction is this salt sea?” “Allah yallim!” (“God knows!”) “I thought you said you knew all about the river?” “I know it goes north!” said he decisively, and sharply. “How do you know?” “Because I followed Mtagamoyo to Usongora Meno, and, crossing the Ugarowa,[6] near the Urindi, went with him to the Lumami and to the dwarf country.” ----- Footnote 6: The Ugarowa river is the Arab corruption of the word Lu-alowa, which Livingstone called Lualaba. -----