It has at last come home to the mind of that impetuous and much objurgated dog, Shark, that his destiny in life is to be a boar-hound. Hitherto, his experience of the manners and customs of pigs has not been great; but the conviction has come to him that he knows all about the business; and, too, he is probably anxious to retrieve his disgraceful conduct of the morning. Shark is a fresh arrival on the scene, having just come in with one of the straggling parties. He is not contented to join his canine companions, who are warily waiting their opportunity to dash in on the boar's flanks and rear; but, like all high-couraged and impetuous youth, Shark dashes, barking, to the front, and blindly, quixotically, and madly, he charges on the boar. Alas! poor dog! great as was his bravery, his size, his strength, what could they avail in such foolhardy strife? One jerk of the black snout, one flash of the white tusks, and, with a last yelping scream, the body of poor Shark goes whirling up into the air, and falls a bleeding, bisected, lifeless lump. Poor Shark! with all his faults, I think we loved him well! But even in his death he is avenged. The boar darted a few feet forward in his onslaught upon Shark, and the opportunity has been seized upon. The war-cry of the Ngatewhatua goes echoing through the forest, as old Tama springs down in rear of the boar; his swinging tomahawk inflicts a gaping wound, and he seizes a hind leg of the pig before that animal can back itself among the roots. Other Maoris, Old Colonial, and more of the party rush to his aid. Dogs seize on the boar's bleeding ears. For a minute there is a scene of direful confusion, an indescribable struggle in which men, dogs, and pig are mingled in a twisting, shouting, panting, wrestling heap. Another dog gets his flank slit up, a man has his legging and trouser torn off his leg, and then the giant brute is conquered. Overturned and shrieking, kicking, biting, struggling desperately to the last, till half a dozen knives are buried in his heart. With the slaughter of the monster boar the day's hunt comes to an end. The spot is close to the rendezvous, and most of the parties have arrived, or are not far off. There is an interchange of gossip over the doings of the day among the various groups; and, by-and-by, a count up of the number of pigs killed. Ears and tails are produced as vouchers, and about three hundred and fifty pigs, big and little, are thus accounted for, while half a dozen pair of tusks, of more than ordinary size, denote the killing of as many large boars. The tusks from the last slain monster become the property of Old Colonial, and, gaily mounted in silver, they may now be found among the ornaments of an English drawing-room.