The Journal of a Sporting Nomad 



man, or been armed with a double-barrel rifle, 

 the story might have had quite another ending. 

 He had the greatest contempt for lions, and 

 paid the penalty of that contempt with his life. 

 Personally I should always keep my rifle loaded 

 in a country fairly swarming with these beasts, and 

 I proved later on the truth of my conviction. 



I had left Fontesvilla when this unfortunate 

 occurrence took place, and was in Salisbury, but 

 before going up there, I had occasion to go down 

 to Beira. It was on a Sunday evening that I 

 left Fontesvilla in the small steamer. The 

 captain's name was " Dicky," or, at all events, 

 that is the name he went by. There was only 

 one passenger besides myself, an Englishman, 

 who was on his way to catch the steamer to 

 Durban. We had to take down with us a large 

 empty lighter, which was made fast fore and 

 aft to the port side of the steamer. All went 

 well until we rounded a big bend in the river 

 about four miles from our starting-place. Here 

 the current took charge of the lighter, which 

 yawed dangerously away from our side. Jack, 

 the mate, ran forrard to haul on the big hawser as 

 Dicky put the helm up to bring the two together 

 again, and was hauling away with all his might 

 and main to take up the slack round a bollard 

 on deck, when an accident happened. In order 

 to get more purchase in pulling, the poor man 

 put his right foot on the taffrail. At this moment 



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