There isn't a village in that part of Africa that is not proud to be a host to anybody's cattle, if only because the ownership of so much living wealth casts glory on all who come in contact with it.
There was no means of telling whether or not we were over the German border.

The boundary line had not been surveyed yet, and on the map the part where we were was set down as "unexplored," although that was scarcely accurate; the route was well enough known to Greeks and Arabs, and other bad characters bent on smuggling or in some other way defeating the ends of justice.
We marched that night until midnight, slept until dawn, and were off again.

At noon we reached rising ground, and Kazimoto ran ahead of us to the summit.

We saw him standing at gaze for three or four minutes with one hand shading his eyes before he came scampering back, as excited as if his own fortune were in the balance.
"Hooko-chini!" he shouted.

"Hooko-chini--mba-a-a-li sana!"-- (They're down below there, very far away!) We hurried up-hill, but for many minutes could see nothing except a plain of waving grass higher than a man's head and almost as impenetrable as bamboo-country that carried small hope in it for man or beast, that would be a holocaust in the dry season when the heat set fire to the grass, and was an insect-haunted marsh at most other times.
However, path across it there must be, for the Greeks had driven Brown's cattle that way that very morning, and Kazimoto swore he could see them in the distance, although Brown, and Will, and I--all three keen-sighted--could see nothing whatever but immeasurable, worthless waving grass.
At last I detected a movement near the horizon that did not synchronize with the wind-blown motion of the rest.