ation he could, and they
passed on into what was, in those days, an almost untrodden land for
sportsmen, alive with game of every kind. Mr. Oswell says that a man who
was anything of a shot could easily feed a party of six hundred by his
own gun. Still, there might be some risk connected with the securing of
the dinner, and the hunter might have to ask, like the primitive savage,
not only, 'Can I kill it?' but 'Will it kill me?'

On one occasion Mr. Oswell walked unexpectedly into the middle of a herd
of buffaloes, who scattered in all directions. Only one patriarch of the
herd, who had been lying apart from the rest, stood his ground, and the
young Englishman found himself facing the great beast, at a distance of
ten yards, with but one barrel of his gun loaded. He gave the contents
of this to the buffalo, but did not reach a vital part, and the animal
charged him. Mr. Oswell was standing under one of the mimosa-trees which
grow plentifully in this part of the country. He seized a branch and
swung himself off the ground, drawing, he says, his knees up to his
chin, so that the buffalo actually passed beneath him. The feat sounds
almost impossible, but Mr. Oswell tells it in the most matter-of-fact
fashion, simply adding that he thought it safer than the usually advised
method of springing to one side, as the buffalo can swerve sideways in
his charge, and gore his enemy in passing.

Another adventure during this expedition certainly tested the hunter's
nerve to the uttermost. Mr. Oswell's men informed him one morning that
there was no meat in the camp for the dogs who guarded the party at
night; so, taking his gun, with but one barrel loaded, he strolled out
in search of a supper for his watchmen, feeling sure of securing
something without going to any distance, or needing more ammunition. Nor
was he disappointed, for, two hundred yards from the camp, he came upon
some quagga, and killed one of them. The animal ran a little distance
before it dropped, and Mr. Oswell, after marking it down, went back for
men to carry the game home. But in this monotonous country, with its
stretches of thorny bush and mimosa-trees, nothing is easier than to
miss a track, and Mr. Oswell, though nicknamed by the Kaffirs, 'Jlaga,'
the watchful or wide-awake, found himself on this occasion at fault. No
waggons or encampment came in sight. He tried to retrace his steps and
start again, or, by making a circle, to strike his original track, but