Hunting In Many Lands 



dust over his shoulders. His tusks gleamed 

 white and beautiful. He lowered his head, 

 and I could but just see the outline of his 

 skull and the tips of his ears. This time my 

 gun-bearer did not run. The sight of the ivo- 

 ry stirred in him a feeling, which, in a Swahili, 

 often conquers fear — cupidity. I raised some 

 dust in my hand and threw it in the air, to see 

 which way the wind blew. It was favorable. 

 Then beckoning my gun-bearer, I moved for- 

 ward at a slight angle, so as to come opposite 

 the brute's shoulder. I had gone but a few 

 steps when the bush opened and I got a good 

 sight of his head and shoulder. He was ap- 

 parently unconscious of our presence and was 

 lazily flapping his ears against his sides. Each 

 time he did this, a cloud of dust arose, and a 

 sound like the tap of a bass drum broke the 

 stillness. I fired my .577 at the outer edge of 

 his ear while it was lying for an instant against 

 his side. A crash of bush, then silence, and no 

 elephant in sight. I began to think ihat I had 

 been successful, but the sharper senses of the 

 negro enabled him to know the contrary. His 

 teeth chattered, and for a moment he was mo- 

 tionless with terror. Then he pointed silently 

 to his left. I stooped and looked under the 



44 



