And as I felt my strength going in that vicious struggle
against heavy brush and steep hills, I began to have very strong doubts
indeed as to that sable.
For it was cruel, hard work. In this climate one hailed a car or a
rickshaw to do an errand two streets away, and considered oneself quite
a hero if one took a leisurely two-mile stroll along the cliff heads at
sunset. Here I was, after a five-hour uphill march, bucking into brush
and through country that would be considered difficult going even in
Canada. At the end of twenty minutes my every garment was not wringing
but dripping wet, so that when I carried my rifle over my arm water ran
down the barrel and off the muzzle in a steady stream. After a bit of
this my knees began to weaken; and it became a question of saving
energy, of getting along somehow, and of leaving the actual hunting to
Memba Sasa and the guide. If they had shown me a sable, I very much
doubt if I could have hit it.
However, we did not see one, and I staggered into camp at dusk pretty
well exhausted. From the most grateful hot bath and clean clothes I
derived much refreshment. Shortly I was sitting in my canvas chair,
sipping a cocoanut, and describing the condition of affairs to F., who
was naturally very curious as to how the trick was done.
"Now," I concluded, "I know just about what I can and what I cannot do.
Three days more of this sort of work will feed me up.
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