MY POINTER. 7 



enough and fit enough for all purposes of the future, 

 and so on to the end of time. 



After much grunting, yawning, stretching, and, 

 no doubt, numerous complaints, if not curses, at the 

 inexorable taskmaster whom they have to serve, 

 Cookey, a fat, oleaginous and on occasions cheeky 

 scoundrel, puts in an appearance, not to perform his 

 duties, as might be imagined, but to criticise in no 

 favourable terms that part of them which I had 

 taken upon myself to perform. 



My morning meal invariably consisted of a stew 

 or hash left from the previous dinner, which, washed 

 down with a cup of strong coffee, I found an ex- 

 cellent preparation for a hard morning's work. 



As feathered game was the object of my 

 expedition, the greyhounds were secured to the 

 wagons, and Donna, my pointer, was taken in 

 a leash by my hunting attendant, a stalwart 

 Zulu, who had strong sporting proclivities, which, 

 however, were seldom displayed till he had shaken 

 off by exercise the chills he was suffering from, 

 or a shot or two had been fired. 



First I pursued a course which took me to the 

 low ground edging upon cultivation. While doing 



