We came quite close, and I planted
my fourth bullet in his shoulder. Even this was not enough. It took a
fifth in the same place to finish him, and he died at last biting great
chunks of earth.
The howls from the hill top ceased. All gathered to marvel at the lion's
immense size. He measured three feet nine inches at the shoulder, and
nine feet eleven inches between stakes, or ten feet eleven inches along
contour. This is only five inches under record. We weighed him
piecemeal, after a fashion, and put him between 550 and 600 pounds.
But these are only statistics, and mean little unless a real attempt is
made to visualize them. As a matter of fact, his mere height--that of a
medium-size zebra-was little unless accented by the impression of his
tremendous power and quickness.
We skinned him, and then rode four long hours to camp. We arrived at
dark, and at once set to work preparing the trophy. A dozen of us
squatted around the skin, working by lantern light. Memba Sasa had had
nothing to eat since before dawn, but in his pride and delight he
refused to touch a mouthful until the job was finished. Several times we
urged him to stop long enough for even a bite. He steadily declined, and
whetted his knife, his eyes gleaming with delight, his lips crooning one
of his weird Monumwezi songs. At eleven o'clock the task was done. Then
I presented Memba Sasa with a tall mug of coffee and lots of sugar.
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