last-named animal that gives such
keen and long sustained interest to the work of beating a swamp. One
never knows what to expect. A suspicious stir in the reeds may mean a
lion or only a hyena; an enormous crashing may sound like a herd of
elephants, but finally resolve itself into a badly frightened reedbuck.
Most of the time you expect reedbuck, but all the time you have to be
ready for lion. As a general thing a lion will slink along in the reeds
ahead of the beaters and not reveal himself until he is driven to the
end of the cover. Then he will grunt warningly or show an ear or a
lashing tail above the reeds, and instantly every one is in a state of
intense expectancy. What the next move will be no one knows, but it is
more than likely to be something of a supremely dramatic sort.

One day we were beating swamps on the Guas Ngishu Plateau. Lions seemed
to be numerous in that district. Two days before I had killed two lions
near by, and during the morning Stephenson and I had each killed a
lioness in the same line of marshy reed beds. We now intended advancing
to the next large swamp of the chain and see whether a large,
black-maned lion might not be routed out.

Conditions seemed propitious, for in this selfsame swamp Colonel
Roosevelt had seen the best lion of his trip some weeks before. Perhaps
the lion might still be there.

The campaign was planned with great thoroughness. Forty or fifty porters
were formed into the customary skirmish line and on each side we
paralleled the beaters with our rifles. At the word of command the
column began to advance and the interest reached a fever heat. The swamp
was five or six hundred yards long, and for the first three hundred
yards nothing of a thrilling sort occurred. The shouts of the beaters
blended into a rhythmic, melodious chant and the swish of their sticks
as they thrashed the reeds was enough to make even the king of beasts
apprehensive.

[Photograph: Abdi, the Somali Head-man]

[Photograph: Along the Nzoia River]

[Photograph: Beating a Swamp for Lions]

Over on my side of the swamp there was a wide extension of dry reeds and
bushes through which I was obliged to go in order to keep in touch with
the skirmish line of porters. We had got three-quarters the full length
of the swamp and any moment might reasonably expect to hear from a lion
if there was one ahead of us. Every rifle was at readiness and the
porters were advancing less impetuously. In fact, the