(By Mr. Punch's own Short Story-teller.)
Introduction.
Not many living men, and even fewer in the ages that are past,have—if I may use the word—sported with greater assiduity andsuccess than I have during a life which is even now little past itsmiddle period. At one time on horseback, at another on the boundingand impulsive elephant; now bestriding the matchless dromedaryon his native prairie, now posted on foot in a jungle crowded withgolden pheasants in all the native splendour of their plumage; sometimesmatching my solitary craft against a host of foxes on the swellinguplands of Leicestershire, sometimes facing the Calydonian boar orthe sanguinary panther in their woodland lairs, dealing showers ofleaden death from a hundred tubes, or tracking my fearful prey bythe lonely light of a wax vesta anddespatching it at midnight withmy trusty bowie—wherever therewere leagues to be walked, risks tobe run, or fastnesses to be rushedthere not only have I been the first,but (paradoxical as it may appear)there also have I succeeded andhave never been successfully followed.My experiences are thereforeunique, and it is in the hopethat they may to some extent profita younger generation, less inured,I fear, to hardship and danger thanmy own, that I now set pen topaper and recount some of theexploits that have made my namefamous wherever sport is lovedand true sportsmen are revered.
A less modest man might havesaid more, but one whose deedsspeak for him in every quarter ofthe world may well be content toleave to punier men the ridiculoustrumpeting braggadocio that toooften makes so-called sportsmenthe laughing stock of society. Formyself, I can never forget thelesson I learned at an early agefrom my dear father, himself ashikari of no common order, thoughto be sure, as he himself would bethe first to admit if he were alive,the exploits of the son (I had nobrothers) have now thrust theparental performances into thebackground. Still, it was myfather who first inculcated uponmy infant mind the daring, theignorance of fear, the contempt ofdanger, and the iron endurancewhich have since made me a householdword. Heaven rest the oldman! He sleeps his last sleep far away in the Desert of GoldenSand, with no head-stone to mark his resting-place, and neitherthe roaring of his old enemies the tigers, nor the bellowing of thecountless alligators who infest the spot can rouse him any more.Alas! it was trustfulness that destroyed him. He was gored todeath by a favourite rhinoceros that he had rescued at a tender agewhen its mother was killed, and had brought up to know and, as hethought, to love him. But I have always thought myself that therhinoceros was a treacherous brute, and though I have often beenasked to tame one, for presentation to this or that Emperor, I haveconsistently declined.
Marvellous, however, as my father was in his day for his exploitsand his variegated bags of game, he was perhaps even more wonderfulfor the unswerving accuracy with which he was accustomed torelate his adventures. Far and wide over the steppes of CentralAsia, the burning regions of equatorial Africa, the precipitoushaunts of the American Grizzly, and the wild retreats of theferocious Albanian pig—everywhere, in short, where he had setfoot or drawn trigger, this peculiarity of his was known and appreciated,and many a respectful sobriquet did it earn for him from the