Sporting Trips of a Subaltern 



sang out, as I ran up to him, and " *303 in the 

 shoulder," was Porter's response. Sore enough 

 they were both there, either shot must have been 

 almost instantaneously fatal. We decided that 

 the question of the ownership of the trophy was 

 far too serious to be settled off-hand, so both 

 enjoyed the satisfaction of gazing at his great 

 head, and picturing it set up in all its glory 

 in (different) halls at home. We had a most 

 fearful job to decapitate him. I had for the first 

 and only time left my hunting-knife at home, and 

 the whole job had to be done with a small pen- 

 knife. Heat and flies made matters much worse. 

 I never knew so many flies collect anywhere 

 before, and it was over an hour before we had 

 done the job, both streaming with perspiration 

 and gore, but with the great head cut off at the 

 extreme base of the neck. Most fortunately, 

 during the operation we saw and attracted the 

 attention of a native, far below us, or we should 

 have had to carry the weighty trophy down to 

 the river ourselves, and as the only feasible 

 way to do this was to place it on one's own 

 head, which for obvious reasons was unpleasant, 

 we were glad of his aid. A bargain was 

 quickly struck. The grinning negro pointed to 

 the head and to Jebba island, then to the body 

 and his own " little Mary," and the thing was 

 fixed up. 



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