of an Orchid Hunter 



95 



would go no farther that clay. Everybody was on the 

 alert for a hunt ; so all the dogs of the place were got 

 together, and two rusty old guns, which were all the 

 station could muster, most of the natives being armed 

 with lances, and what is called here the machete, or 

 cutlass. Away we started into the forest, trampling 

 down and cutting through the beautiful strelitzias, 

 delicate palms, and gorgeous creepers. With the 

 help of the dogs, we were not long in finding the 

 track of the herd, and then we went on about an 

 hour before we came up with them. The natives 

 wore next to no clothing, but mine was reduced to 

 shreds in the desperate struggle with the thorns and 

 creepers. The first sign of the herd was given to us 

 by a pattering sound and a very rank smell, besides 

 the barking of dogs. Presently we appeared to have 

 dropped into the middle of them, as every part of the 

 forest seemed alive with wild pigs. There must have 

 been at least three hundred, rushing backwards and 

 forwards in the wildest confusion, some of the natives 

 darting through amongst the trees with the dogs, 

 trying to keep the herd together, others firing as 

 quickly as they could reload their guns, and some 

 using their cutlasses to kill as many as possible. After 

 about a quarter of an hour of the most exciting fight 

 that it is possible to imagine, the whole of the herd 

 that remained unwounded had disappeared, leaving us 



