There was a rest-house 3 or 4 miles further on. To have gone there would not have materially saved time on the journey. I therefore elected to have a house at the bottom of the hill, a house belonging to the village Headman which was kept, so he informed me with many bows, for distinguished visitors. It was of straw throughout, and as I looked at the flimsy structure I bethought the mud walls of recent residences as quite mansions. There was a kind of entrance-hall, also of straw, which gave an extra apartment. The floor was ordinary earth. It had not been hardened in any way. As the boxes were about to be taken in up rode Mr F. L. Bensusan, of Juga Mine, who had overtaken me on the road and from whom I had parted a few minutes earlier when he was to turn off to Tilde Fulani. Seeing me returning down the hill he cantered forward to ascertain what was amiss. He remarked that the house was all right in the absence of two visitations: one was a strong wind, which would throw it down, and the other rain, which would come through the roof on the bed. I replied I intended to slumber in the hope neither would come and I trusted that that night would be different from all other nights of late. He, however, insisted on lending me his waterproof ground-sheet, which he rigged up as a second roof, sloping one side so that the rain would run off to the side of the bed instead of weighing down the sheet, water and all, on to the occupant. We had tea and biscuits and then he instructed his steward boy to tell his carriers to go on to Tilde Fulani and he would follow. The steward boy took the instruction and returned with the message that “The carriers say they no fit.[4] They fit stay at Toro and go Tilde Fulani to-morrow.” “No fit!” exclaimed Mr Bensusan; “you go and bring me the carrier who say he no fit.” There is usually a ringleader and spokesman in these little mutinies. The answer which came back turned pressure from an individual. “The carriers say,” reported the steward boy, “no one say he no fit. They all say they no fit!” “Oh, do they,” observed Mr Bensusan; and he put on his helmet to go and make his recalcitrant servants toe the line. I followed to support his action. “Who say he no fit to go for Tilde Fulani?” demanded Mr Bensusan, as he faced the half-dozen men. No words; only scowls. “You take up your load, and you, and you, and you,” was the order given along the line. The men did, and they had not gone 500 yards when they were laughing among themselves as though nothing had happened. The essay had failed, as did the one on me in the village of Lafee Sala. Doubtless the men reflected, at least they had tried. These men were not professional carriers, men who had taken to the calling from choice. They were labourers on the mine called upon for the special service. As a rule the labourer does not accept kindly the work of a carrier, and the carrier can seldom be prevailed upon to keep to any other occupation.