y were pretending
to go forward without doing so.

Suddenly a wild shout from a porter near by, then a hurried retreat of
other porters, and then a cautious advance gave sign that something
desperate was about to happen. We caught a glimpse of reeds moving about
and then saw something crouched in the grass beneath. Two ears were
finally distinguished among the tangle of rushes, and there was no
further doubt about it. It was not a lion. It wasn't even a hyena.

It was a little dog. His presence in the middle of that swamp was about
as logical as if he had been a musk-ox or a walrus. However, there he
was, gazing up at us from the bulrushes, with mild, friendly eyes and a
little tail that was poised for wagging at the slightest provocation. He
was instantly christened "Moses" for obvious reasons. Later the name was
changed to Mosina, also for obvious reasons.

After the line of porters had regained their composure the lion beat
continued, but no lion appeared. The sum total of the wild beasts
yielded by that promising swamp was one (1) little black and tan dog
with white feet.

[Drawing: _It Was Not a Lion_]

Some of our genealogical experts addressed themselves to the task of
figuring out the why and wherefore of little Mosina and what in the
world she was doing out in a lion and leopard infested place. Leopards
in particular are fond of dogs, not the way you and I are fond of them,
but in quite a different way. A leopard, so it is said, prefers a dog to
any other food and will take daring chances in an effort to secure one
for breakfast, dinner, or supper. Therefore, how little Mosina escaped
so long is a mystery yet unsolved.

The experts decided after a thorough consideration of the case, viewing
it from all possible angles, that the little dog was a Wanderobo dog.
The Wanderobo are natives who live solely by hunting and generally have
the most primitive sort of a grass hut at the edge of a swamp or deep in
the solitudes of the forest. They put rude honey boxes up in the trees
to serve as beehives, and it is from this honey and from the game that
they kill with their bows and arrows and traps and spears that they
manage to eke out a meager living.

Like all true hunters, they keep dogs, and it is more than likely that
little Mosina was the ex-property of some wild-eyed, naked Wanderobo who
lived in the swamp. When our great crowd of noisy beaters appeared at
the other end of the swamp the Wanderobo had doubtl