The Journal of a Sporting Nomad 
one hundred yards of the sand-spit, and remained 
an hour or more, when we spotted our enemy’s 
ugly nose close to where he had disappeared. I 
had a °303 single rifle loaded with a soft-nosed 
bullet. It is at all times difficult to fire accur- 
ately from a canoe—the boat wobbles so discon- 
certingly, and one’s position is so cramped that 
a miss is scarcely to be wondered at. 
I fired at the small portion of the head showing 
above the water, and the bullet struck the water 
slightly beyond my mark. This was aggravat- 
ing, as the tide was rising and the sand-bank 
would soon be covered. 
We had brought with us a large shark-hook 
attached to a length of chain, to which was tied 
some ten fathoms of new Manilla rope, whilst to 
the end of the rope we fastened a heavy anchor. 
We baited the hook with a piece of salt pork 
weighing six or seven pounds, stuck the shank of 
the hook into the sand, and covered up the 
chain and part of the rope in a like manner. 
The anchor we buried deep on the top of the 
bank, and here we left it, intending to return on 
the morrow to see if our plan had been successful. 
Next evening we visited the spot, but nowhere 
could we find any sign of the tackle. Personally, 
I think the crocodile was large enough to have 
dragged the anchor free in his struggles to 
escape, but Child was of the opinion that a 
native had annexed the whole concern. The 
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