BLUE BULL STALKING. 47 



meeting one for the first time face to face on a lonely 

 track, in the dusk of evening, incontinently took it 

 for Old Nick in proprid persona. The cows have no 



horns. 



# # * # * 



Connected in my mind with the blue bull is one of 

 those memories of past misery, which, acute as it was 

 at the time, is only recalled now to be laughed at. 

 The story dates from the days of my earliest 

 " griffinage," when I was willing to take the word of a 

 worthless haremzadeh (scamp), self dubbed shikari, as 

 to the presence of game in any place, and also as to the 

 best way to get at it. 



Not to make my story too long, I had been in 

 India about six weeks when the bazaar loafer in 

 question persuaded myself and P , another green- 

 horn, of the presence of large quantities of game in a 

 district some fifty miles off. 



Our troubles began early. Arrived at the end of 

 our railway journey, no coolies were forthcoming, and 

 a couple of valuable hours were thus lost. Towards 

 dark we were persuaded by the cause of all our woes 

 to disregard the local knowledge of the men we had 

 with difficulty enlisted, as to the route we should 

 follow. The result of this was that, when the path we 

 were following came to an abrupt end at the top of a 

 rocky pass, we had to camp there, waterless, and this 

 in an Indian May ! Lest I should be misunderstood, 

 I hasten to add that we had plenty of soda-water, but 

 we had to leave camp at five a.m. without tea and un- 

 refreshed bv a wash. 



