wounded; I cannot play," whereupon another ran up to the wounded
one, crying, "Courage, brother. Tis a Nelson's death." Great dears I
thought they were.

Since then we have been through dry places, and camped in desolate
places, hardly ever seeing a European, and enjoying ourselves
extremely. One day, a red-letter day, Boggley shot two crocodiles.
One was a fish-eater, but the other was a great old _mugger_, most
loathsome to look at. Autolycus hoped for _human limbs_ inside it, and
I believe they did actually find relics of his gruesome meals in the
shape of anklets and rings and bangles. Boggley is going to have the
skins made up into things for me, but it will take about six months to
cure them. It is good to think there is one _mugger_ the less. I hate
the nasty treacherous beasts. Pretending they are logs, and then
eating the poor natives!

One night we had a delightful camping-ground on the edge of a lochan
well stocked with duck, which Boggley set out to shoot and ended by
missing gloriously. We were much embarrassed by a fat old landowner
heaping presents on us. He nearly wept when we refused to accept a
goat!

All the fortnight we have only met two Europeans--a couple called
Martin. I don't know quite what they were, or why they were holding up
the flag of empire in this lonely outpost, but they were the greyest
people I ever saw.

Finding ourselves in the neighbourhood of Europeans, we called, as in
duty bound. The compound round the bungalow had a dreary look, and
when we were shown into the drawing-room I could see at a glance it