It DID rain--in such torrents as only the inhabitants of tropical countries can understand. "Cover up the gun-locks!"--and the pieces of mackintosh for that purpose were immediately secured in their places. Well, let it rain!--it is rather pleasant to be wet through in a country where the thermometer is seldom below 92 degrees Fahr., especially when there is no doubt of getting wet through--not like the wretched drizzling rain of England, that chills you with the fear that perhaps your great-coat is not waterproof, but a regular douche bath that would beat in the crown of a cheap hat. How delightful to be really cool in the centre of Africa! I was charmingly wet--the water was running out of the heels of my shoes, which were overflowing; the wind howled over the flood that was pouring through the hitherto dry gullies, and in the course of ten minutes the whole scene had changed. It was no longer the tropics; the climate was that of old England restored to me: the chilled air refreshed me, and I felt at home again. "How delightful!" I exclaimed, as I turned round to see how my followers were enjoying it. Dear me! I hardly knew my own people. Of all the miserable individuals I ever saw, they were superlative--they were not enjoying the change of climate in the least--with heads tucked down and streams of water running from their nasal extremities, they endeavoured to avoid the storm. Perfectly thoughtless of all but self in the extremity of their misery, they had neglected the precaution of lowering the muzzles of their guns, and my beautiful No. 10 rifles were full of water. "Charming day!" I exclaimed to my soaked and shivering followers, who looked like kittens in a pond. They muttered something that might be interpreted "What's fun to you is death to us." I comforted them with the assurance that this was an English climate on a midsummer day. If my clothed Arabs suffered from cold, where was my naked guide? He was the most pitiable object I ever saw; with teeth chattering and knees knocking together with cold, he crouched under the imaginary shelter of a large tamarind tree; he was no longer the clean black that had started as my guide, but the cold and wet had turned him grey, and being thin, he looked like an exaggerated slate-pencil. Not wishing to discourage my men, I unselfishly turned back just as I was beginning to enjoy myself, and my people regarded me as we do the Polar bear at the Zoological Gardens, who begins to feel happy on the worst day in our English winter. We returned home by a different route, not being able to find the path in the trackless state of the country during the storm. There were in some places unmistakeable evidences of the presence of elephants, and I resolved to visit the spot again. I returned to the tent at 4 P.M. satisfied that sport was to be had.