CHAPTER XVII. 



SHARK-SHOOTING IN THE MAURITIUS. 



SOME dozen years ago fate landed me in Port 

 Louis, the capital and port of the Island of Mauritius. 

 I was strolling along through the streets when a cheery 

 voice hailed me. 



" Rather different to the Grande Rue de Pera," it 

 said. I turned round and there was an old acquaintance, 

 R , of the - - Highlanders. We had last fore- 

 gathered at Constantinople what time the " clouds in 

 the East," which resulted in the Russo -Turkish war,, 

 were gathering blackly on the political horizon. 



" Why, R , what are you doing here ? " I cried. 



" My good fellow, I am the Robinson of the island. 



" My right there is none to dispute, 

 From the centre right down to the sea 

 I am lord of the fowl and the brute. 



In plain English, I am the commandant of Port 

 Louis. My detachment consists of a few sickly 

 Scotchmen and three British subalterns, of whom one 

 is at the sanatorium at Curepipe, while the other two 

 take it in turns to do duty and lie in bed with the 

 local fever." 



" Don't you get fever, then ? " 



