WART-HOG 341 



memory far longer than will any red-letter day of 

 success. 



Next morning, after four and a half hours of con- 

 tinuous rain, I started along the river bank and came on 

 a sounder of wart-hog. Having watched them for some 

 time, I decided to shoot the boar, a fine old fellow, 

 but he was far too cautious a hand to expose himself, 

 always feeding in long grass or under a bush. At last I 

 got a chance and fired, when away he dashed, leaving a 

 heavy blood trail behind. After following for some 

 distance, I sat down for a hour to give him time to rest 

 and grow stiff, and then again took up the trail. 

 Presently we found two pools of blood, where he had 

 lain down, and finally Ali spotted him, stretched out at 

 the foot of a bamboo clump, dead — at least so we 

 thought — but he soon undeceived us by springing to 

 his feet and bolting. I got a hurried shot through the 

 bamboos, and the guide dashed after him, Ali and I 

 following. The next thing I saw was the boar charging 

 down-hill for all he was worth, and the guide running 

 for dear life. As soon as he caught sight of me, 

 the beast altered his course and came down the 

 path, straight as a die. I waited until he was only 

 15 paces distant, and then fired and knocked him 

 over. The guide came up panting and pulled out his 

 knife to cut its throat, but the blade proving blunt he 

 turned aside to whet it, and while he was doing so, the 

 boar showed such unmistakable signs of vitality that we 

 moved off about ten paces up the hill and sat down on 

 some stones, Hyde and another man joining us. The 

 pig seemed at its last gasp ; blood was flowing from its 



