Perfectly Thoughtless Of All But Self In The Extremity Of Their Misery, They Had Neglected The Precaution Of Lowering The Muzzles Of Their Guns, And My Beautiful No.

10 rifles were full of water.

"Charming day!" I exclaimed to my soaked and shivering followers, who looked like kittens in a pond. They muttered something that might be interpreted "What's fun to you is death to us." I comforted them with the assurance that this was an English climate on a midsummer day. If my clothed Arabs suffered from cold, where was my naked guide? He was the most pitiable object I ever saw; with teeth chattering and knees knocking together with cold, he crouched under the imaginary shelter of a large tamarind tree; he was no longer the clean black that had started as my guide, but the cold and wet had turned him grey, and being thin, he looked like an exaggerated slate-pencil. Not wishing to discourage my men, I unselfishly turned back just as I was beginning to enjoy myself, and my people regarded me as we do the Polar bear at the Zoological Gardens, who begins to feel happy on the worst day in our English winter.

We returned home by a different route, not being able to find the path in the trackless state of the country during the storm. There were in some places unmistakeable evidences of the presence of elephants, and I resolved to visit the spot again. I returned to the tent at 4 P.M. satisfied that sport was to be had.

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