I had long repassed Gidan Gombo and, relying on the horse’s reputation for being sure-footed, was galloping him along a ridge on the road, each side cut into a ditch by further heavy rains of the early morning, when, a slip to the right, he involuntarily bent his head and over it I went, as cleanly as if I had been an acrobat. As is my practice when dismounting in this manner, I retained hold of the reins, but it was well the doki knew his manners and pulled up, for the bridle came off completely. A mud bath and a few slight bruises constituted the casualties, for the pony did not even go on his knees. He looked rather forlorn standing in the road with naked head, and as I went up to replace the bit he appeared to say, with a half-apologetic, sorrowful air, “Well, upon my soul! Who would have thought it?” The sun had come out strongly, removing the dampness and leaving a caking of earth and mud on breeches and shirt as I cantered along to Gussum, 14 miles from Gidan Gombo, reaching it some time after the carriers. Everybody having now settled down to their work, I decided on a 5 a.m. start for next morning, but at that hour the night rain was still falling, and you will seldom induce carriers to step out into a storm. If one comes whilst they are on the march they sturdily go on. A wetting from above is the most severe minor discomfort a native can suffer. It was 7 o’clock before the air had cleared, and we set forth. The Naraguta pilgrims continued towards their goal along the road that has been made southwards, whereas we, after going back a few hundred yards, left the road and struck south-east. It was the first day I had ridden with the carriers, and within a couple of hours, without having spoken to any, I seemed to be on good terms with each. A more buoyant, light-spirited, smiling set nobody would wish to march with. One, Amadu, had suspended round his neck a kind of shepherd’s pipe roughly fashioned of wood, which, with a line of airholes along it, yielded shrill tunes. We set out with this pipe sounding a cheery note that stimulated all of us more for the day’s work. Another leading figure of the party is the Headman Hanza, a fine type of Hausa, the kind of man whom nature has indicated should be above his fellows. His control of the men is thorough yet easy, and exercised with an entire absence of anger or high words. When he has to speak to any of them reprovingly, which is only called for when getting them to make more haste for the early morning assembly, it is never done by shouting. A few words in a deliberate, slow tone are all that is necessary. His articulation through a perfect set of teeth is so clear that a stranger to his language could catch every syllable.