132 THE GAME OF IJRITISH EAST AFRICA. 



thorn-trees and emerging from thorn-bushes, some scratched and torn, but all cheerful 

 and laughing. So once more you push forward, but with a following train now jumpy 

 and nervous. Something springs up in the bush quite close in front, and you start 

 violently and prepare for the worst. A small dikdik scampers away, and you feci 

 rather foolish. Fortunately the sun remains visible, or it would be very dilTicult to 

 keep the right direction in this dense bush. Then you get into a watercourse, with 

 steep banks on either side, and follow down its dry bed for some way. Again the 

 puff ! puff ! puff ! but this time it is on the bank above you. At last you reach the 

 river concealed from the outside world by its dense belt of thorn. No white man 

 that you know of has passed this locality since Carl Peters, and it is unlikely that 

 he broke through the thorn at this identical place. It may well be that even the very 

 few native hunters who come to this uninhabited part have never pushed through 

 the thorn barrier at just this point. For there are no canoes on this part of the 

 river, and no natives in these parts at all. The many canoes of the lower river and 

 the few of the upper are prevented by falls and rapids from visiting this section of 

 the stream. 



Hopes run high that you are the first human being who has ever looked on this 

 picture of wild nature or seen exactly this part of the river. It may be so ; nature 

 may have remained undisturbed, for there, quite close to the bank, and all 

 unsuspecting, is a party of seven hippo peacefully sleeping half out of the water — 

 seven big hippo and one baby nestled close to its mother. One of them is resting 

 its head on a fellow's back, its eyes closed, and a serenely contented expression 

 about the corners of its prodigious mouth. An occasional twitch of an ear or the 

 hopping of a busy tick-bird are the only signs of movement about the party, 

 otherwise they might be mistaken for dead creatures, and, as such a chance as 

 this does not often fall to the sportsman's lot, it must be made the most of. The 

 party are a little downstream from the place at which you have struck the river, so 

 a detour in the bush must be made so as to get opposite them. There is a thick 

 patch of thorn between yourself and the river-bank, so, taking your deadly weapon 

 in hand you cautiously proceed, breathlessly pushing aside the branches and climbing 

 through. Will they hear? Will a breaking twig give you away? At last you reach 

 the river's edge safely. There, however, the foliage of the river-bank prevents a clear 

 view, so you must perforce scramble half down the bank and support yourself on the 

 roots of the trees washed bare by river floods. Having got there, you part the 

 branches very quietly, clinging on as best you can to steady your precarious foothold. 

 The hippos are just below, all unconscious of the fate that awaits them. Taking as 

 steady an aim as the awkward position on the roots of the river trees permits, you 



