Jammed Rifle 



was drawing a bead on. I naturally took my eye 

 off them for a moment, to see what he meant, and 

 the whole herd made off, and were speedily lost to 

 view in the thick bush. Going on for the third 

 time, I came upon another solitary male. He was 

 standing motionless, watching intently some object 

 away on my left, so that he presented an ideal heart 

 shot. Scarcely breathing I gently squeezed the 

 trigger between my forefinger and thumb. Nothing 

 happened! My rifle had jammed. The nose of 

 the bullet had disconnected itself from the cartridge 

 and stuck in the barrel of the rifle. A pessimist 

 once said that life was an opportunity for making 

 mistakes, which may lead to grief or glory according 

 as chance strikes the chord. Many a time I have 

 been vexed at some foolish act on my part, or some 

 apparently untoward happening on the part of fate. 

 In the end it has turned out for the best in this best 

 of all possible worlds. I am now, therefore, a bit of 

 a fatalist, and "Kismet" is my reply to all such 

 occurrences, as I have just related. 



I wandered on through heavy bush for yet 

 another five hours, loath to acknowledge my ultimate 

 defeat. I saw plenty of zebra, tame as horses out 

 to grass, protected by a wise government's game 

 laws. I also caught sight of a wart hog. I could 

 just discern the knob of the end of his tail, stuck up 

 in the air, and his white tusks gleaming in the sun- 

 shine. He was going rapidly away from me on some 

 private business of his own, so I heeded him not. 



In the course of my peregrinations I lost my 

 263 



