THE LAND OF FOOTPRINTS 



a pose. Memba Sasa was most keenly interested in 

 game whenever it was an object of pursuit. It did 

 not matter how common the particular species might 

 be: if we wanted it, Memba Sasa would look upon 

 it with eager ferocity; and if we did not want it, he 

 paid no attention to it at all. When we started in 

 the morning, or in the relaxation of our return at 

 night, I would mention casually a few of the things 

 that might prove acceptable. 



"To-morrow we want kongoni for boys' meat, or 

 zebra; and some meat for masters — ^Tommy, im- 

 palla, oribi;" and Memba Sasa knew as well as I did 

 what we needed to fill out our trophy collection. 

 When he caught sight of one of these animals his 

 whole countenance changed. The lines of his face 

 set, his lips drew back from his teeth, his eyes fairly 

 darted fire in the fixity of their gaze. He was like 

 a fine pointer dog on birds, or like the splendid sav- 

 age he was at heart. 



"M'palla!" he hissed; and then after a second, in 

 a restrained fierce voice, "Na-ona.'* Do you see?" 



If I did not see he pointed cautiously. His own 

 eyes never left the beast. Rarely he stayed put 

 while I made the stalk. More often he glided like 

 a snake at my heels. If the bullet hit, Memba Sasa 

 always exhaled a grunt of satisfaction — "hah!" — 

 in which triumph and satisfaction mingled with a 



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