ily's comfort after you are gone. You want to act a part in your country's history; you want to be a man who does things. Many of us need to do things for the mere joy of accomplishment. We Americans are proud to be an active enterprising people, feverishly restless, unpleasantly so at times. But suppose we could lie down flat on our backs, under the shade of a palm, with the wind blowing between our toes, while everything that we wanted would drop into our open mouths—without exertion—do you suppose we'd have any frenzied financiers? Any malefactors of great wealth? Any bank presidents in stripes, and a lot more that ought to be? Not much. No man labors beyond his needs."
All of this gave Bimbashi McDonald something to think about—and he always did a lot of thinking before he said anything. The Colonel watched him snatch up his rifle and hurry out upon the river in a launch.
At the very edge of the Nile Old Reliable had preempted a shady seat from which he could attend to his job of pondering the sudd grass as it went drifting down Khartum way. This job suited Zack; he had toiled at it for a solid month, ever since his niggers had deserted the cotton patch. He, too, eyed McDonald until the puffy little launch came back, and McDonald sprang out to go rushing towards the quarters.
