The boat had not reached the shore before
the boys with the steel hawser were in the water; the gangplank was
run out, and the black soldiers and wood boys, with their knives,
were dancing about the hippo and hacking at his tail. Their idea was
to make him the more quickly bleed to death. I ran to the cabin for
more cartridges. It seemed an absurd precaution. I was as sure I had
the head of that hippo as I was sure that my own was still on my
neck. My only difficulty was whether to hang the head in the front
hall or in the dining-room. It might be rather too large for the
dining-room. That was all that troubled me. After three minutes,
when I was back on deck, the hippo still lay immovable. Certainly
twenty men were standing about him; three were sawing off his tail,
and the women were chanting triumphantly a song they used to sing in
the days when the men were allowed to hunt, and had returned
successful with food.
On the bridge was Anfossi with his camera. Before the men had
surrounded the hippo he had had time to snap one picture of it. I
had just started after my camera, when from the blacks there was a
yell of alarm, of rage, and amazement. The hippo had opened his
eyes and raised his head. I shoved the boys out of the way, and,
putting the gun close to his head, fired pointblank. I wanted to put
him out of pain. I need not have distressed myself. The bullet
affected him no more than a quinine pill.
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