interesting, when such necessities arose, to stalk the shy buck and do
long-range rifle practice. This shooting, however, was done only after
the day's hunt was over. We had no desire to spoil our lion chances.

The long circle towards our evening camp always proved very long indeed.
We arrived at dusk to find supper ready for us. As we were old
campaigners we ate this off chop boxes as tables, and sat on the ground.
It was served by a Wakamba youth we had nicknamed Herbert Spencer, on
account of his gigantic intellect. Herbert meant well, but about all he
succeeded in accomplishing was a pathetically wrinkled brow of care and
scared eyes. He had never been harshly treated by any of us, but he
acted as though always ready to bolt. If there were twenty easy right
methods of doing a thing and one difficult wrong method, Herbert would
get the latter every time. No amount of experience could teach him the
logic of our simplest ways. One evening he brought a tumbler of mixed
water and condensed milk. Harold Hill glanced into the receptacle.

"Stir it," he commanded briefly.

Herbert Spencer obeyed. We talked about something else. Some five or ten
minutes later one of us noticed that Herbert was still stirring, and
called attention to the fact. When the latter saw our eyes were on him
he speeded up until the spoon fairly rattled in the tumbler. Then, when
he thought our attention had relaxed again, he relaxed also his
efforts--the spoon travelled slower and slower in its dreamy circle. We
amused ourselves for some time thus. Then we became so weak from
laughter that we fell backward off our seats, and some one gasped a
command that Herbert cease.

I am afraid, after a little, that we rather enjoyed mildly tormenting