THE LAST FRONTIER 



the country. The mental focussing back from the 

 pale gray half light of Hawthorne's New England 

 to the actuality of wild Africa was a most extra- 

 ordinary experience. 



Through the heat of the day the world lay ab- 

 solutely silent. At about half-past three, however, 

 we heard rumblings and low bellows from the trees 

 a half mile away. I repocketed Hawthorne, and 

 aroused myself to continuous alertness. 



The ensuing two hours passed more slowly than 

 all the rest of the day, for we were constantly on the 

 lookout. The buffaloes delayed most singularly, 

 seemingly reluctant to leave their deep cover. The 

 sun dropped behind the mountains: and their shadow 

 commenced to climb the opposite range. I glanced 

 at my watch. We had not more than a half hour of 

 daylight left. 



Fifteen minutes of this passed. It began to look 

 as though our long and monotonous wait had been 

 quite in vain; when, right below us, and perhaps five 

 hundred yards away, four great black bodies fed 

 leisurely from the bushes. Three of them we could 

 see plainly. Two were bulls of fair size. The 

 fourth, half concealed in the brush, was by far the 

 biggest of the lot. 



In order to reach them we would have to slip 

 down the face of the hill on which we sat, cross the 



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