(Snuff to a Nyamwezi is as comforting as an old sweet pipe to nine white men out of ten.) When Schubert came that evening at five with an old sack to put my body in, and plenty of askaris to help decide disputes, I was standing up.
He could not very well make even himself believe that a man who could speak and walk was dead, but he could be immensely enraged by what he was pleased to call my schweinspiel.* He cursed me in every language he knew, including several native ones, and ended by threatening to make sure of me before going to so much trouble a second time.

[*Literally, pig-play.] We enraged him still further by laughing at him, and Fred got out his concertina that for many days past had lain idle.

The first few notes of it made me realize more than any other thing could have done what depths of despondency we must have plumbed, for hitherto, for as long as I had known Fred, he had always been able with that weird instrument of his to rouse his own spirits and so stir the rest of us.

He resumed old habits now, and gloom departed.
That evening I went to bed like a new man, and for the first night for long weeks slept until dawn, awaking hungry.

My leg began to mend.