We heard a roar like a bull's from behind, and a dozen men--white, black and yellow--came careering down the platform carrying guns, baggage, bedding, and all the paraphernalia that travelers in Africa affect.
First in the van was Georges Coutlass, showing a fine turn of speed but tripping on a bed-sheet at every other step, with his uncased rifle in one hand, his hat in the other, an empty bandolier over one shoulder and a bag slung by a strap swinging out behind him.

He made a leap for the second-class compartment in front of us, and landed on all fours on the platform.

We opened the door of our compartment to watch him better.
Once on the platform he threw his rifle into the compartment and braced himself to catch the things his stampeding followers hurled after him--caught them deftly and tossed them in, yelling instructions in Greek, Kiswahili, Arabic, English, and two or three other languages.
It may be that the engineer looked back and saw what was happening (or perhaps the guard signaled with the cord that passed through eyeholes the whole length of the train) for though we did not slow down we gained no speed until all his belongings had been hurled, and caught, and flung inside.

Then came his traveling companions--caught by one hand and dragged on their knees up the steps.

They were heavy men, but he snatched all three in like a boy pulling chestnuts from the fire.
The first was a Greek--evil-looking, and without the spirit that in the case of Coutlass made a stranger prone to over-look shortcomings--dressed in khaki, with rifle and empty bandolier.