Then boys began bringing the German's breakfast, and unless I chose to confess myself an eavesdropper it became my business to be in the tent ahead of them.
So I strode forward as if just arrived and purposely tripped over a tent-rope, stumbling under the awning with a laugh and an apology.
"Who are you ?" demanded the German without rising.

He had the splay shovel beard described to us in Zanzibar--big dark man, sitting in the doorway of a tent all hung with guns, skins and antlers.

He was in night-shirt and trousers--bare feet--but with a helmet on the back of his head.
"A visitor," I answered, "staying at the hotel--out for a morning shot at something--had no luck--got nothing--saw your tents in the distance, and came out of curiosity to find out who you are." "My name is Professor Schillingschen," he answered, still without getting up.

There was no other chair near the awning, so I had to remain standing.

I told him my name, hoping that Hassan had either not done so already, or else that he might have so bungled the pronunciation as to make it unrecognizable.