I took a photograph of the entire group and by good luck the grouse is faintly seen suspended in the middle.
That night, with the camp-fires burning and with our tents almost buried in the tall grass, we celebrated Thanksgiving in a way that must have made old Lucullus fidget in his mausoleum.

The wealth of the plains was compelled to yield tribute to our table; eland, grouse and Uganda cob appeared and disappeared as if by magic; the vast storehouses of Europe and America poured their treasures upon our groaning board, and one by one we safely put away succulent lengths of asparagus, cakes and chocolate, wine and olives, pickles and honey, nuts and cheese, plum pudding and coffee, and soup and salad, all in their proper sequence and in sufficient quantities to go round and round.
A soft moon shone down from the velvet sky and the trees of the river bed were bathed in white moonlight as we sat by the great camp-fire and smoked and talked and dreamed of the folk at home.
It was an unusual occasion, one that called for a special dispensation in the way of late hours, so it was almost nine when we turned in and dreamed of armies of rhinos playing battledore and shuttlecock with our bulging forms.

It was a great dinner, and to be on the safe side we complimented the cook before we went to bed.
[Photograph: A Group of Ketosh Ladies] [Photograph: Nearly Buried in Grass] [Photograph: Building a Grass House] A day or two later, after blindly floundering about in a sea of waving grass for miles and miles, and getting more and more hopelessly lost, we stumbled upon signs of human habitation.

The first sign was a great stretch of valley in which a number of smoke columns were ascending.
Where there's smoke there's folk, we thought, patting ourselves on the back for cleverness.

We knew we were approaching fresh eggs and chickens.
A little later we came upon another sign of human agitation.