The Journal of a Sporting Nomad 
We came upon a small sheet of water, two hun- 
dred yards or so in circumference, in the centre of 
which projected a rock about as big as a man’s 
head. “Shoot!” said the little Indian laconic- 
ally, entrusting me with my rifle again. 
I was steady enough now, I had had my lesson, 
and felt like a clockwork man. Sitting down, I 
took careful aim at the stone and pulled.. The 
bullet hit the water directly in a line with the 
rock, but some six or seven feet beyond, thus 
proving that, seated as I was, on the level with 
the object aimed at, the bullet must have been 
within an ace of hitting the top of the stone. 
Johnny then took two shots, one of whch 
fairly hit the mark; then I had a couple more, 
one of which was similar to the first fired, whilst 
the second scored a hit, the bullet glancing off— 
we heard it sing as it flew at a tangent. This 
left me with two cartridges only, but with the 
assurance that the rifle was sound enough—the 
shooter had to take the blame and disgrace of 
the bad shooting. 
I don’t know which of us was most down on 
his luck, the Indian or I, as we made tracks for 
camp. 
The beast I had so shamefully missed had a 
nice head, looking to my unpractised eye much 
better than it probably was, and I comforted 
myself with this sophistry, even though I did 
not believe it, saying in effect, “If he be not 
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