THE HIPPO POOL 



day, Mahomet came to us bearing Little Simba in 

 his hand. 



"Bwana,'' said he respectfully, *'is it enough that 

 I shut Simba in the tin box, or do you wish to flog 

 him?" 



On one very disgraceful occasion, when every- 

 thing went wrong, we plucked Little Simba from his 

 high throne and with him made a beautiful drop- 

 kick out into the tall grass. There, in a loud tone of 

 voice, we sternly bade him lie until the morrow. The 

 camp was bung-eyed. It is not given to every 

 people to treat its gods in such fashion: indeed, in 

 very deed, great is the white man 1 To be fair, having 

 published Little Simba's disgrace, we should pub- 

 lish also Little Simba's triumph: to tell how, at the 

 end of a certain very lucky three months' safari he 

 was perched atop a pole and carried into town tri- 

 umphantly at the head of a how^ling, singing pro- 

 cession of a hundred men. He returned to America, 

 and now, having retired from active professional life, 

 is leading an honoured old age among the trophies 

 he helped to procure. 



Funny Face first met Little Simba when on an 

 early investigating tour. With considerable dif- 

 ficulty he had shinned up the table leg, and had 

 hoisted himself over the awkwardly projecting table 

 edge. When almost within reach of the fascinating 



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