If he does venture ashore,
he goes only a few rods from the bank and then only to forage. His
home is the river, and he rushes to bury himself in it as naturally
as the squirrel makes for a tree. This particular hippo ran for the
river as fast as a horse coming at a slow trot. He was a very badly
scared hippo. His head was high in the air, his fat sides were
shaking, and the one little eye turned toward us was filled with
concern. Behind him the yellow sun was setting into the lagoons. On
the flat stretch of sand he was the only object, and against the
horizon loomed as large as a freight car. That must be why we both
missed him. I tried to explain that the reason I missed him was
that, never before having seen so large an animal running for his
life, I could not watch him do it and look at the gun sights. No one
believed that was why I missed him. I did not believe it myself. In
any event neither of us hit his head, and he plunged down the bank
to freedom, carrying most of the bank with him. But, while we still
were violently blaming each other, at about two hundred yards below
the boat, he again waddled out of the river and waded knee deep up
the little stream. Keeping the bunches of grass between us, I ran up
the beach, aimed at his eye and this time hit him fairly enough.
With a snort he rose high in the air, and so, for an instant,
balanced his enormous bulk. The action was like that of a horse
that rears on his hind legs, when he is whipped over the nose.
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