XXXVI 
THE HUNTER’S END 
3i5 
son, with the obduracy of dementia, insisted that if 
a native could eat it, he himself could eat it also. 
That night the end came, and he passed away in 
great agony, accusing his boys to the last of having 
deliberately poisoned him and, next day, those 
staunch fellows, who had stuck faithfully to him till 
death, buried his body and placed stones over the 
grave to prevent hyaenas disturbing his remains. 
The last entry in his diary reads :—‘ Feel like 
dying, but must get right. Nothing to eat for 
seven days. Elephant here if only I could get 
after them.’ 
Could any words be more vividly characteristic 
of a hunter, or so full of poignant tragedy as that 
last sentence of Watkinson’s—‘ Elephant here, if 
only I could get after them ! ’ Poor fellow, he was 
game to the last! Can any man wish to be more 
when the ‘ Angel with the darker draught ’ draws 
nigh ? 
