CAPE FOXHOUNDS 

 talk on sport. After giving a hopeful 

 view of prospects for the morrow, 

 the conversation turns on other lines, 

 and soon we are thrilled with vivid 

 tales of bygone days when lions and 

 tuskers formed the quarry in these 

 same districts, where now we scarce 

 can find a jackal. 



But these sportsmen are not late 

 sitters, and just as one is beginning 

 to think whether it is quite good 

 enough to hear another lion story at 

 the risk of being asphyxiated with 

 the reek of gin and Boer tobacco, 

 they rise, and, with their hoarse 

 "Goode-nachts/'they clatter out into 

 the darkness towards their several 

 travelling bedrooms. Nor do we long 

 outsit them, for, as the pig-sticking 

 song says, 



47 



