Without the slightest premonitory warning those two brutes
snorted and whirled in their tracks to stand facing in our
direction. After the dead stillness they made a tremendous row,
what with the jerky suddenness of their movements, their loud
snorts, and the avalanche of echoing stones and boulders they
started down the hill.
This was the magnificent opportunity. At this point I should
boldly have stepped out from behind my bush, levelled my trusty
3A, and coolly snapped the beasts, "charging at fifteen yards."
Then, if B.'s and F.'s shots went absolutely true, or if the
brutes didn't happen to smash the camera as well as me, I, or my
executors as the case might be, would have had a fine picture.
But I didn't. I dropped that expensive 3A Special on some hard
rocks, and grabbed my rifle from Memba Sasa. If you want really
to know why, go confront your motor car at fifteen or twenty
paces, multiply him by two, and endow him with an eagerly
malicious disposition.
They advanced several yards, halted, faced us for perhaps five or
six seconds, uttered snort, whirled with the agility of polo
ponies, departed at a swinging trot and with surprising agility
along the steep side hill.
I recovered the camera, undamaged, and we continued our climb.
The top of the mesa was disappointing as far as game was
concerned. It was covered all over with red stones, round, and as
large as a man's head.
