thought. The deadly muzzle of my 

 gun swung into focus on the great 

 glistening mud-splashed shoulder 

 he turned his head from us, I remem- 

 ber being glad as I pulled the trigger, 

 that this lessened the chance of a 

 mis-shot hitting the horns . 



A most unholy joy seized me when 

 George cried! 



" He's hit! Give him another! " 



This is no place for the horrid 

 details which I insist upon forgetting. 

 In a quarter of an hour it was over. 

 I was soaked in mud from waist 

 down, having repeatedly slipped into 

 the bog in my efforts to get to him 

 quickly and put the finishing touch, 

 so that he would not suffer. An 

 overwhelming sense of relief rushed 

 over me unsportsmanlike, perhaps, 

 but blessed. The icy grip of murder- 

 ous intent relaxed and I felt once 

 more human. 



The last of the half-light had gone 

 now. We could do little more until 

 morning, except to protect the pre- 

 cious head from prowling four-foots 

 and birds of the air. George's vest 

 wrapped around the great square 

 nose was sufficient for the former, as 



