A RECORD OTTER HUNT 



OOK! If that's not 

 the 'seal' of an otter, 

 I'm a Dutchman ! " ex- 

 claimed my friend M. to 

 me one morning as we 

 were jogging along the 

 bank of the Klip River 

 on our Basuto ponies 

 after an impromptu 

 game of polo on the 

 ground which to - day 

 forms the playing-field 

 of the Rand Polo Club. 



In a moment I was out of the saddle and examining 

 the patch of grey mud which my companion had pointed 

 out to me. Yes ; there could be no doubt about it, 

 the pad-prints were those of Master Lutra, and upon 

 searching the banks of the stream a Httle lower down 

 we discovered the half-eaten remains of a yellow fish 

 which had probably afforded him a breakfast that very 

 morning, for the fish had not been out of the water many 

 hours. 



" Tell you what, D.," went on M., as he puffed out a 

 great cloud of rank Boer tobacco smoke until the pure 

 morning air simply reeked of " burned rags," " we'll get 

 59 



