Sporting Trips of a Subaltern 



apiece. Eustace led off accordingly on June 3, 

 and was still splashing in his tub while I was in 

 bed gloating over the prospect of mine, when 

 Spots' head, wild with excitement, was thrust 

 into the tent with the news that a rhino was 

 within a few miles. Bathing was " off," break- 

 fast was " off," and, cramming a few biscuits into 

 my pocket, I mounted my pony and was off 

 myself. Abdi the son of Adan, our head-man, 

 personally accompanied me, with Spots, my 

 " syce," and a camel-man, who had charge of 

 my water-bottle and a fid of cold oryx that my 

 boy thrust on him for my lunch. I soon found 

 a pony was impossible, and sent him home. 



At 8.40 we were on absolutely fresh rhino 

 tracks. I shall never forget that morning. I have 

 seen the Addo bush in South Africa, also many of 

 the thickest West-coast jungles, but for hard work 

 that bit of Somali thorn bush beat them all. We 

 positively had to crawl under the bushes most 

 of the way. Huge thorns seized me by the hat, 

 by the back of the coat, by the putties, and as 

 fast as I was clear of one I was into another. 

 It was like walking through a thickly coppiced 

 wood with a fly-rod, only much more painful. 

 Had it not been for those huge, fresh tracks I 

 should have " chucked " it at once. 



Of course the rhino had made a path, otherwise 

 progress would have been impossible ; but he had 



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