The Journal of a Sporting Nomad 
their shells, enabling me to cut off the protruding 
flesh, and the little plate of shell used for closing 
up the entrance to the snail retreat. 
When I had cleaned out some of them I sent 
them off to a friend of mine, Mr. Layard, of 
Budleigh Salterton, a great conchologist, and 
he told me that the specimens were new to 
science, and christened them after me. 
The commissariat ‘“‘on the hill” at Calabar 
was restricted in variety, consisting mainly of 
tinned foods, and I thought it would be a good 
idea to import a pig or two, and some fowls and 
turkeys, all of which I ordered through our 
agent in London. The pigs were installed in a 
magnificent brick sty, to which we had no end 
of difficulty in introducing them. Owing to the 
unaccustomed heat the animals would lie down, 
refusing to budge. Two or three days after the 
turkeys came, the boy who was detailed to look 
after them came to me in great distress, saying 
over and over again, ‘“‘ Hen live for die.” I 
found one of the birds sitting on a perch with 
drooping head, black with driver ants, who 
were stinging their prey to death. “ Live for 
die’ hardly expressed the situation. With a 
stick I put the poor turkey out of misery, and 
the ants scattered far and wide. I told the boy 
to bury the corpse, but I expect he cooked it for 
his supper, and invited all his pals to the banquet. 
A week later my chief and I went up-river to 
42 
