THE LAST FRONTIER 



my bush, levelled my trusty 3 A, and coolly snapped 

 the beasts, "charging at fifteen yards." Then, if 

 B.'s and F.'s shots went absolutely true, or if the 

 brutes didn't happen to smash the camera as well 

 as me, I, or my executors as the case might be, 

 would have had a fine picture. 



But I didn't. I dropped that expensive 3A 

 Special on some hard rocks, and grabbed my rifle 

 from Memba Sasa. If you want really to know 

 why, go confront your motor car at fifteen or twenty 

 paces, multiply him by two, and endow him with 

 an eagerly malicious disposition. 



They advanced several yards, halted, faced us 

 for perhaps five or six seconds, uttered another 

 snort, whirled with the agility of polo ponies, and 

 departed at a swinging trot and with surprising 

 agility along the steep side hill. 



I recovered the camera, undamaged, and we con- 

 tinued our climb. 



The top of the mesa was disappointing as far as 

 game was concerned. It was covered all over with 

 red stones, round, and as large as a man's head. 

 Thornbushes found some sort of sustenance in the 

 interstices. 



But we had gained to a magnificent view. Before 

 us lay the narrow flat, then the winding jungle of our 

 river, then long rolling desert country, gray with 



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