sing-sing must round the hill, and not cross the stream. By
running to the top of the hill I might catch a glimpse of them
somewhere below. So I started on a jog trot, trying to hit the
golden mean of speed that would still leave me breath to shoot.
This was an affair of some nicety in the tall grass. Just before
I reached the actual slope, however, I revised my schedule. The
reason was supplied by a rhino that came grunting to his feet
about seventy yards away. He had not seen me, and he had not
smelled me, but the general disturbance of all these events had
broken into his early morning nap. He looked to me like a person
who is cross before breakfast, so I ducked low and ran around
him. The last I saw of him he was still standing there, quite
disgruntled, and evidently intending to write to the directors
about it.

Arriving at the top, I looked eagerly down. The cliff fell away
at an impossible angle, but sheer below ran out a narrow bench
fifty yards wide. Around the point of the hill to my right-where
the herd had gone-a game trail dropped steeply to this bench. I
arrived just in time to see the sing-sing, still trotting, file
across the bench and over its edge, on some other invisible game
trail, to continue their descent of the cliff. The big buck
brought up the rear. At the very edge he came to a halt, and
looked back, throwing his head up and his nose out so that the
heavy fur on his neck stood forward like a ruff. It was a last
glimpse of him, so I held my little best, and pulled trigger.

This happened to be one of those shots I spoke of-which the
perpetrator accepts with a thankful and humble spirit. The
sing-sing leaped high in the air and plunged over the edge of the