Andalucia and its Big Game 75 
Courage is a quality that all admire, though one may wonder if 
it is not sometimes over-esteemed, when we find it possessed in 
common, not only by very many wild-beasts, but even by savage 
races of human kind—races which we regard as “lower,” yet not 
inferior in that cherished quality of “ pluck.” 
Before you crawl in there, stop to think of the annoyance the 
act may cause not merely to our hunt, but possibly to a wife, 
otherwise to sisters, friends, or hospital nurses, even, it may he, 
to an undertaker—though he will not object. 
Once victorious over canine foes, it will be a remote chance 
indeed that that boar, unless caught by mishap in some carelessly 
chosen lair, will ever again show up as a mark for the fore-sight of 
a rifle. 
After one such rout, we remember finding our friend the 
Reverend Father, who had sallied forth with us for a mild 
morning’s shooting, perched high up among the branches of a 
thorny sabina (a kind of juniper), whence we rescued him, cut 
and bleeding, and badly “shaken in nerve!” 
We add the following typical instances of boar-shooting — 
Satavar, February 1, 1900.—A lovely winter’s morn, warm 
sun and dead calm. The distant cries of the beaters (nigh three 
miles away) had just reached my ears, when a nearer sound 
riveted attention—the soft patter of hoofs upon sand. Then 
from the forest-slope behind appeared a pig—big and grey— 
trotting through deep rushes some forty yards away. Already 
the fore-sight was “ touching on” its neck, when a lucky suspicion 
of striped piglings following their mother arrested the ball. Next 
came along a gentle hind with all her infinite grace of contour 
and carriage. At twenty-five yards she faced full round, and for 
long seconds we stared eye to eye. Curious it is that absolute 
quiescence will puzzle the wildest of the wild! Hardly had she 
vanished ‘midst forest shades, than once again that muffled 
patter—this time an unmistakable tusker. But, oh! what an 
abominable shot I made—too low, too far back—and onwards he 
pursued his course. By our forest laws it was my deber 
(bounden duty) to follow the stricken game. All that noontide, 
all the afternoon—through bush and brake, by dell and dusky 
defile—patiently, persistently, did Juanillo Espinal and I follow 
every twist and turn of that unending spoor. ‘There was blood 
to help us at first, none thereafter. Through the thickets of 
