Long after I had retired to rest that night I lay
awake listening to roar answering roar in every
direction round our camp, and realised that we
were indeed in the midst of a favourite haunt of
the king of beasts. It is one thing to hear a lion
in captivity, when one knows he is safe behind
iron bars; but quite another to listen to him when
he is ramping around in the vicinity of one's
fragile tent, which with a single blow he could
tear to pieces. Still, all this roaring was of
good omen for the next day's sport.
According to our over-night arrangement, we
were up betimes in the morning, but as there was
a great deal of work to be done before we could
get away, it was quite midday before we made
ready to start. I ought to mention before going
further that as a rule Spooner declined my company
on shooting trips, as he was convinced that I
should get "scuppered" sooner or later if I
persisted in going after lions with a "popgun," as
he contemptuously termed my .303. Indeed, this
was rather a bone of contention between us, he
being a firm believer (and rightly) in a heavy,
weapon for big and dangerous game, while I
always did my best to defend the .303 which I
was in the habit of using. On this occasion
we effected a compromise for the day, I accepting
the loan of his spare 12-bore rifle as a second
gun in case I should get to close quarters.
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