The sun was high in the heavens before we finally started from
Kijabe and descended the rough road to the level ground, with the
brakes on the ox-wagons squealing harshly and the horses treading
silently in the dust.
We had planned to camp at Sewell's farm that night. It was only
about four hours away, but a short trek the first day is always a
good rule to follow. It gives every one a chance, so to speak, to
shake down well into the saddle. We had gone but a short
distance, however, when one thing became strikingly apparent:
Gobbet did not know how to ride! He was mounted on a white
African pony that we had found it necessary to add to our string.
The pony was stolid, lazy, and easy-gaited, but Gobbet's
unfamiliar attitude toward his mount was unmistakable.
Now it is a delicate matter in any country to broach the question
of a man's horsemanship, but presently Gobbet introduced the
subject of his own accord.
"Of course I can't ride a horse," he said. "Have never been on
one before. When Mr. Kearton spoke to me about coming out here
with him, he just asked me if I could ride, and I told him surely
I could ride--but I didn't tell him I meant a bicycle.
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