98 WAR: A SCOUTS' PATROL 



had been the driest the people in these parts had 

 ever known, and, consequently, the grain crop 

 had been very poor, while the water between the 

 Quandoo and Okavango, already beginning to get 

 scarce, was confined to a few main pans and sand- 

 pits. 



On the third day of our journey we passed my 



old camp, where in March I had been lying ill with 



fever, and only after a hard struggle had pulled 



round. Four months later, when I had quite 



recovered and was on that last lion hunt, I had 



passed this camp for the second time, and, stopping, 



had said a short mental prayer of gratitude to 



Providence for having pulled through and for 



being as fit as ever. Then three weeks later I 



had been carried back by six savages on an 



abominably hard stretcher, with a wrist and arm 



broken, and generally pretty sore from a mauling. 



I remember quite well that as I passed the old 



place I turned my head on the stretcher to have a 



look at it, wondering sourly at the same time, 



since my last stage seemed to be worse than the 



first, whether I had not been perhaps a little 



premature in my previous thanksgiving. Now, 



however, I was not so badly off after all. Although 



the wrist was quite stiff, I had got back at least 



a good half of the use of my thumb and first 



three fingers, and, in addition, I was in the greatest 



spirits at the knowledge that, in spite of previous 



discouragement, I had been able to fit into some 



sort of service in the big struggle. 



