A BATTLE WITH A TORRENT 143 



In addition to my hunting-coat with large 

 inside pockets, I wore hobnailed shoes, spurs, 

 and a belt filled with cartridges, from which 

 dangled my hunting-knife. 



Lazarus, my hunting pony so named be- 

 cause of his lack of flesh and general anaemic ap- 

 pearance stepped fearlessly into the stream. 

 He was perfectly at home in the water and a 

 good swimmer; at least that was what I was 

 told when I purchased him. 



The creek became deeper and deeper with 

 every step, and by the time I was in the middle 

 the water was dashing wildly against my ani- 

 mal's legs. I had reached the most dangerous 

 spot when my gun bearer shouted. The roar- 

 ing of the torrent drowned his words, so I turned 

 to look back. 



At that instant Lazarus must have stepped 

 on and slipped from a large boulder, for sud- 

 denly he stumbled and fell upon his knees. He 

 fought bravely for a few seconds to regain his 

 footing, but the tumultuous water was more 

 than a match for him. He slipped, slid, and 

 floundered about, deluging me with water. 



Nearer and nearer we bumped along toward 

 the end of the riffle and the rolling billows below 



