The boots are laced! This is the
troublesome part of dressing before broad daylight, and
nevertheless laced ankle-boots must be worn as a protection
against sprains and bruises in such a country. Never mind the
trouble of lacing them; they, are on now, and there is a good
day's work in store for them.
It was the 30th May, 1853, a lovely hunting morning and a fine
dew on the patinas; rather too windy, but that could not be
helped.
Quiet now! - down, Bluebeard! - back, will you, Lucifer! Here's a
smash! there goes the jungle kennel! the pack squeezing out of it
in every direction as they hear the preparations for departure.
Now we are all right; ten couple out, and all good ones. Come
along, yo-o-i, along here! and a note on the horn brings the pack
close together as we enter the forest on the very summit of the
ridge. Thus the start was completed just as the first tinge of
gold spread along the eastern horizon, about ten minutes before
sunrise.
The jungles were tolerably good, but there were not as many elk
tracks as I had expected; probably the high wind on the ridge had
driven them lower down for shelter; accordingly I struck an
oblique direction downward, and I was not long before I
discovered a fresh track; fresh enough, certainly, as the thick
moss which covered the ground showed a distinct path where the
animal had been recently feeding.
