ru, for the
moment they saw the two men pick up their heavy hunting-spears they
sprang to their feet and began howling and yelping in concert till they
were beaten into silence by the women. I brought with me a short Snider
carbine--the best and handiest weapon to stop a wild pig at a short
range--and a double-barrelled muzzle-loading shot-gun. The latter I gave
to the "devil" to carry, and promised him that he should fire at least
five shots from it at pigeons or mountain fowl before we returned to the
village.

Following a narrow footpath which led along the right bank of the
stream, we struck directly into the heart of the mountain forest, and in
a few minutes the voices, shouts, and laughter of our companions sounded
as if they were miles and miles away. Now and then as we got deeper
into the dark, cool shade caused by the leafed dome above, we heard
the shrill cry of the long-legged mountain cock--a cry which I can
only describe as an attempt at the ordinary barnyard rooster's
"cock-a-doodle-do" combined with the scream of a cat when its tail is
trodden upon by a heavy-booted foot. Here in these silent, darkened
aisles of the forest it sounded weird and uncanny in the extreme, and
aroused an intense desire to knock the creature over; but I forebore to
fire, although we once had a view of a fine bird, attended by a hen and
chicks, scurrying across the leaf-strewn ground not fifty feet away.
Everywhere around us the great grey pigeons were sounding their booming
notes from the branches overhead, but of these too we took no heed, for
a shot would have alarmed every wild pig within a mile of us.

An hour's march brought us to the crest of a spur covered with a species
of white cedar, whose branches were literally swarming with doves and
pigeons, feeding upon small, sweet-scented berries about the size of
English haws. Here we rested awhile, the dogs behaving splendidly by
lying down quietly and scarcely moving as they watched me taking off my
boots and putting on a pair of cinnet (coir fibre) sandals. Just beneath
us was a deep canyon, at the bottom of which, so Nalik said, was a tiny
rivulet which ran through banks covered with wild yams and _ti_ plants.

"There be nothing so sweet to the mouth of the mountain pig as the thick
roots of the _ti_," said Nalik to me in a low voice. "They come here
to root them up at this time of the year, before the wild yams are well
grown, and the _ti_ both fattens and sweetens. Let