THE LAND OF FOOTPRINTS 



things are outside consideration, even, of any re- 

 spectable gunbearer. In addition, he must keep 

 cool. He must see clearly in the thickest excitement; 

 must be ready unobtrusively to pass up the second 

 gun in the position most convenient for immediate 

 use, to seize the other and to perform the finicky task 

 of reloading correctly while some rampageous beast 

 is raising particular thunder a few yards away. All 

 this in absolute dependence on the ability of his 

 bzvana to deal with the situation. I can confess very 

 truly that once or twice that little unobtrusive 

 touch of Memba Sasa crouched close to my elbow 

 steadied me with the thought of how little right I 

 — with a rifle in my hand — had to be scared. And 

 the best compliment I ever received I overheard by 

 chance. I had wounded a lion when out by myself, 

 and had returned to camp for a heavier rifle and 

 for Memba Sasa to do the trailing. From my tent I 

 overheard the following conversation between Memba 

 Sasa and the cook: 



"The grass is high," said the cook. "Are you not 

 afraid to go after a wounded lion with only one 

 white man.?" 



"My one white man is enough," replied Memba 

 Sasa. 



It is a quality of courage that I must confess would 

 be quite beyond me — to depend entirely on the 



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