And where
was the blood? The rain had washed the blood away!
Nimrod seemed chagrined at the poor end of so much trouble, but
there was something in his look and voice suggesting a suppressed
thought--these people, like the English and the Somal, show their
innermost secrets in their faces. At last, I asked him if he was
now willing to try the Shekyani country. He answered flatly,
"No!" And why?
Some bushmen had bewitched him; he knew the fellow, and would
quickly make "bob come up his side:" already two whites had
visited him with a view of shooting gorillas; both had failed; it
was "shame palaver!"
This might have been true, but it certainly was not the whole
truth. I can hardly accept M. du Chaillu's explanation, that the
Mpongwe, who attack the beasts with trade muskets and pebbles,
will not venture into the anthropoid's haunts unless certain of
their white employer's staunchness. What could that matter, when
our Nimrod had an excellent weapon in his hand and a strong party
to back him? Very likely Forteune was tired with walking, and
five dollars per shot made the game not worth the candle.
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