The Journal of a Sporting Nomad 



We came upon a small sheet of water, two hun- 

 dred yards or so in circumference, in the centre of 

 which projected a rock about as big as a man's 

 head. " Shoot ! " said the little Indian laconic- 

 ally, entrusting me with my rifle again. 



I was steady enough now, I had had my lesson, 

 and felt like a clockwork man. Sitting down, I 

 took careful aim at the stone and pulled. The 

 bullet hit the water directly in a line with the 

 rock, but some six or seven feet beyond, thus 

 proving that, seated as I was, on the level with 

 the object aimed at, the bullet must have been 

 within an ace of hitting the top of the stone. 



Johnny then took two shots, one of whch 

 fairly hit the mark ; then I had a couple more, 

 one of which was similar to the first fired, whilst 

 the second scored a hit, the bullet glancing off 

 we heard it sing as it flew at a tangent. This 

 left me with two cartridges only, but with the 

 assurance that the rifle was sound enough the 

 shooter had to take the blame and disgrace of 

 the bad shooting. 



I don't know which of us was most down on 

 his luck, the Indian or I, as we made tracks for 

 camp. 



The beast I had so shamefully missed had a 

 nice head, looking to my unpractised eye much 

 better than it probably was, and I comforted 

 myself with this sophistry, even though I did 

 not believe it, saying in effect, "If he be not 



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