But the awning precluded that, and we were not more than two or three yards away.
"Laugh!" whispered Fred.
So we crossed the track laughing and the trolley had to pause to let us by.

We laughed as we raised our helmets to her--laughed both at her and at the pink and white puppy she had taken in leash.

And then the sort of thing happened that nearly always does when men with a reasonable faith in their own integrity make up their minds to see opprobrium through.

Fate stepped hard on our arm of the balance.
If built-over Mombasa is a small place, so is Africa.

So is the world.
Striding down the hill from the other hotel, the rival one, the Royal, came a man so well known in so many lands that they talk of naming a tenth of a continent after him--the mightiest hunter since Nimrod, and very likely mightier than he; surely more looked-up to and respected--a little, wiry-looking, freckled, wizened man whose beard had once been red, who walked with a decided limp and blinked genially from under the brim of a very neat khaki helmet.
"Why, bless my soul if it isn't Fred Oakes!" he exclaimed, in a squeaky, worn-out voice that is as well known as his face, and quickened his pace down-hill.
"Courtney!" said Fred.