The Journal of a Sporting Nomad 
light on the second day, but with the exception 
of the herd of blue wildebeest, of which I had 
bagged a bull, all the game was extremely wild 
from being so constantly hunted by profes- 
sionals. 
We came upon a small troop of zebras, locally 
and wrongly known as quaggas, but there isn’t 
much satisfaction to be got out of slaying a 
zebra, and as meat it is useless also, for the boys 
will not touch it. There were a great number of 
these harmless beasts about. Far too many, 
indeed, for a hunter’s liking. For they are apt 
to give warning of the stalker’s presence to a 
more desirable quarry. 
On the way back to camp I was within an ace 
of stepping on a coiled-up puff-adder. Really, 
it is very curious, when you come to think of it, 
that more accidents do not happen to hunters 
in thick grass. 
Kopping had with him a small Irish terrier 
puppy, and presently the dog began to growl, 
and all his hair on-ended. I was close to a thick 
belt of reeds. Accidentally we had stumbled on 
a lion’s lair. The occupant cleared out as we 
came, and the grass swayed as the beast swept 
through. But the cover was so thick we could 
neither of us get in a shot. We both saw him as 
he crossed a small open space one hundred 
yards off, but only for a fraction of a second. I 
examined the place where the beast had been 
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