We had great luck.  Over the very first hill from camp we came upon a herd of about a dozen topi, feeding on a hill across the way.  I knocked down the first one standing at just 250 paces.  The herd then split and broke to right and left.  By shooting very carefully and steadily I managed to kill three more before they were out of range.  The last shot was at 325 paces.  In all I fired seven shots, and hit six times.  This was the best shooting I did in Africa—­or anywhere else—­and is a first-rate argument for the Springfield and the high velocity, sharp-pointed bullet.

Overjoyed at our luck in collecting these animals so promptly, so near camp, and at a time so very propitious for handling the trophies, we set to the job of skinning and cutting up.  The able-bodied men all came out from camp to carry in the meat.  They appeared, grinning broadly, for they had had no meat since leaving the Narossara.  C. and I saw matters well under way, and then went on to where I had seen a cheetah the day before.  Hardly were we out of sight when two lions sauntered over the hill and proceeded to appropriate the meat!  The two men in charge promptly withdrew.  A moment later a dozen porters on their way out from camp topped the hill and began to yell at the lions.  The latter then slowly and reluctantly retreated.

We were very sorry we had not stayed.  The valley seemed populated with lions, but in general they were, for some reason, strictly nocturnal.  By day they inhabited the fastnesses of the mountain ranges.  We never succeeded in tracing them in that large and labyrinthine country; nor at any time could we induce them to come to kills.  Either their natural prey was so abundant that they did not fancy ready-killed food; or, what is more likely, the cold nights prevented the odour of the carcasses from carrying far.  We heard lions every night; and every morning we conscientiously turned out before daybreak to crawl up to our bait through the wet, cold grass, but with no results.  That very night we were jerked from a sound sleep by a tremendous roar almost in camp.  So close was it that it seemed to each of us but just outside the tent.  We came up all standing.  The lion, apparently, was content with that practical joke, for he moved off quietly.  Next morning we found where the tracks had led down to water, not ten yards away.

We spent the rest of that day spying on the game herds.  It is fascinating work, to lie belly down on a tall ant hill, glasses steadied by elbows, picking out the individual animals and discussing them low-voiced with a good companion.  C. and I looked over several hundred hartebeeste, trying to decide their identity.  We were neither of us familiar with the animal, and had only recollections of the book distinctions.  Finally I picked out one that seemed to present the most marked characteristics—­and missed him clean at 280 yards.  Then I took three shots at 180 yards to down a second choice.  The poor shooting was forgotten, however, in our determination that this was indeed Neumanii.