II 
THE FIGHT WITH THE FOUR 
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can inflict, and poor Simba, unable to bear the 
cruel pangs any longer, crawled over on hands 
and knees to where the elephant lay and began 
to lap up the half-congealed blood which had 
flowed from the animal’s head and gathered in 
a tiny, shining pool. I myself, half-crazy with the 
agony, struggled to my feet, pulled a handful of 
leaves from an adjacent tree, and hoping that the 
moisture contained in the foliage would cool my 
parched mouth, was about to chew them. All at 
once, Simba, having seen my action, rushed up 
and caught my arm. 
‘ Don’t, bwana, don’t,’ he cried, ‘ it is the 
poison tree! Wait a little while and I’ll try to 
get you some roots.’ 
Somewhat refreshed by his awful draught, he 
staggered off into the forest, while I again flung 
myself down and strove calmly to bear the 
torturing pangs until my tracker returned. I 
had only lain a few minutes when, to my joy, 
I heard yell after yell of delight. 
‘ Bwana, nemepona ! Bwana, nemepona! ’ 
(Master, we are saved! Master, we are saved!) 
Getting up, I tottered in the direction of the 
voice and ere long came upon Simba, busy 
with his 5 knife at the stems of a water-bearing 
creeper which the natives call ntamba. After he 
had cut several lengths of about two feet each 
