NOTES BY AN OLD SPORTSMAN 285 



I gradually made my way to the punt. But 

 here again another trouble arose for the 

 punt evidently was family owned, and the 

 craft was being rapidly shoved out into a 

 wide lagoon. Again addressing them in 

 language, more forcible I fear than polite, 

 I shouldered my gun butt upwards, walked 

 into the water, and swam the 40 feet of 

 creek. The dervishes were dumb for a 

 moment, then calling for the punt, they 

 made a rush to get into her simultaneously, 

 with the result that she turned turtle, and 

 it was some minutes before she had been 

 baled out and was ready for use, when to 

 my joy prudence had enjoined them to 

 cross over two at a time. This, of course, 

 gave me a chance to "get" and I got, but 

 a keen north west win in my face, my 

 garments almost freezing on me, and no 

 hope of a change until a three mile walk had 

 been accomplished was not the pleasantest 

 of experiences. Well, the long and short 

 of it was, that I finally got out of an ugly 

 mess, and I still wonder what anyone else 

 could have done under the circumstances. 

 It seemed a cruel thing to shoot the native 

 dog. But I had no alternative if I would 

 save my own. 



