But, as a sporting
proposition, as far as I could see, we had taken on the hippopotamus
at his own game. We were supposed to be on an island, but the water
was up to our belts and running at five miles an hour. I could not
understand why we had not openly and aboveboard walked into the
river. Wading waist high in the water with a salmon rod I could
understand, but not swimming around in a river with a gun. The force
of the shallowest stream was the force of the great river behind it,
and wherever you put your foot, the current, on its race to the sea,
annoyed at the impediment, washed the sand from under the sole of
your foot and tugged at your knees and ankles. To add to the
interest the three soldiers held their muskets at full cock, and as
they staggered for a footing each pointed his gun at me. There also
was a strange fish about the size of an English sole that sprang out
of the water and hurled himself through space. Each had a white
belly, and as they skimmed past us in the moonlight it was as though
some one was throwing dinner plates. After we had swum the length of
the English Channel, we returned to the boat. As to that midnight
hunt I am still uncertain as to whether we were hunting the hippos
or the hippos were hunting us.
The next morning we had our third and last chance at a hippo.
It is distinctly a hard-luck story. We had just gone on the bridge
for breakfast when we saw him walking slowly from us along an island
of white sand as flat as your hand, and on which he loomed large as
a haystack.
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