102 ADVENTURES OF AN ELEPHANT HUNTER CH. 



this God-forsaken, desolate region under a blinding, 

 blistering sun, is, to put it idiomatically, not all 

 beer and skittles. When parched with thirst at 

 night, we fling ourselves down to dream of silver 

 goblets of wine, deliciously cool, only to wake with 

 parched tongues and realize that we still have some 

 hours to stagger on ere we reach the longed-for 

 goal a filthy, perhaps evil-smelling pool at which 

 all manner of unclean beasts quench their thirst. 

 On arrival there, my boy makes me the fail-me- 

 never drink of tea, a concoction that looks more 

 like pea-soup than that heavenly beverage ; but 

 thirst is insistent, and seasoning the liquor with a 

 good dash of Scotch to remove the twinge, I gulp it 

 down. Seeking the shade of some friendly bush, and 

 incidentally having a good look round to see that no 

 snakes are taking advantage of the same shelter, I 

 fling my tortured body on the ground. Physically, 

 I may rest but, mentally, I must be on the qui vive 

 until darkness sets in, in case elephants should come 

 to slake their thirst at the same vile water-hole. 

 There is nothing for it but to live in hope and rouse 

 my drooping energies with another draught of 

 muddy tea and whisky, hoping that perhaps, on 

 the morrow, some tuskers may fall to my rifle, as 

 recompense for all this hardship. 



On Sunday morning, to resume my story, we 

 came across the fresh foot-prints of the same three 



