On my arrival in camp I found that everything
that was possible was being done for poor Bhoota
by
Dr. McCulloch, the same who had travelled up
with me to Tsavo and shot the ostrich from the
train on my first arrival in the country, and
who was luckily on the spot. His wounds had
been skilfully dressed, the broken leg put in
splints, and under the influence of a soothing
draught the poor fellow was soon sleeping
peacefully. At first we had great hope of saving
both life and limb, and certainly for some days
he seemed to be getting on as well as could
be expected. The wounds, however, were very
bad ones, especially those on the leg where the
long tusks had met through and through the flesh,
leaving over a dozen deep tooth marks; the arm,
though dreadfully mauled, soon healed. It was
wonderful to notice how cheerfully the old shikari,
bore it all, and a pleasure to listen to his tale
of how he would have his revenge on the whole
tribe of lions as soon as he was able to get about
again. But alas, his shikar was over. The leg
got rapidly worse, and mortification setting in,
it had to be amputated half way up the thigh.
Dr. Winston Waters performed the operation
most skilfully, and curiously enough the operating
table was canopied with the skin of the lion which
had been responsible for the injury.
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