92 MODERN PIG-STICKING 



but very black, and with curly tushes. I had to 

 take him slow as the country was thicker. Suddenly 

 he jinked right-handed from me and, wheeling about, 

 charged with his full force. He gave me a perfect 

 opportunity : the spear went clean through his 

 lungs and broke, turning him over. I went on and 

 wheeled in time to see the gallant beast scramble 

 to his legs, stand swaying from side to side with the 

 blood pouring out of his mouth, and then fall over 

 dead. 



I was pleased at these two pig. 



We went on for another hour but did no good. 

 I rode one boar, but the country, now near the hills, 

 was poisonous, and, I admit with shame, I did not 

 go, as I ought to have. There only remained a 

 quiet trek of some miles back to camp, talking to 

 the men, thinking the day over, revelling in the air 

 and scenery, knowing how good it all was. 



When I got back to camp, there was the comfort 

 of a hot tub, a brushwood fire, and the always 

 grateful whisky and tea ; while the hound, as was 

 ever his wont, would have first a sup of tea and then 

 hobble over to the pig, walk round them, sniff at 

 them, and even nozzle them in all dignity, and 

 then slowly hobble back to me, his old tail wagging 

 all the while. 



An attractive way of hunting alone is to go out 

 '' gooming " in the early dawn on the line a pig 

 will take returning from feeding. I always do this 

 when I can, and have had pleasant days and some 

 good sport. I used to do this regularly when out 

 at camp at Pur, forty miles north of Meerut, but I 

 never killed a pig there, for the ravines beat me. 

 I went as much for the scenery as anything. Here, 



