THE LAND OF FOOTPRINTS 



was an innocent plush Hon named Little Simba. It 

 had been given us in joke before we left California, 

 we had tucked it into an odd corner of our trunk, 

 had discovered it there, carried it on safari out of 

 sheer Idleness, and lo! it had become an important 

 member of the expedition. Every morning Maho- 

 met or Yusuf packed it — or rather him — carefully 

 away in the tin box. Promptly at the end of the 

 day's march Little Simba was haled forth and set in 

 a place of honour In the centre of the table, and 

 reigned there — or sometimes in a little grass jungle 

 constructed by his faithful servitors — until the 

 march was again resumed. His job in life was to 

 look after our hunting luck. When he failed to get 

 us what we wanted, he was punished: when he pro- 

 cured us what we desired he was rewarded by having 

 his tail sewed on afresh, or by being presented with 

 new black thread whiskers, or even a tiny blanket of 

 'Mericani against the cold. This last was an especial 

 favour for finally getting us the greater kudu. 

 Naturally as we did all this in the spirit of an idle 

 joke our rewards and punishments were rather des- 

 ultory. To our surprise, however, we soon found 

 that our boys took Little Simba quite serious- 

 ly. He was a fetish, a little god, a power of good 

 or bad luck. We did not appreciate this point 

 until one evening, after a rather disappointing 



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