It is rough going, as rough as one will meet with in many travels. If one who has not experienced it can think of a hard mountain climb, or of a long march at the end of twenty miles, or of stiff canoe-going up-river, one may realise something of the stress of endurance. For the rest—the scratching, patience-trying obstacles—if you would picture the worst of them—the thorn-tree Mgoonga—imagine half a dozen groups of Stewart tackle clutching along your arm or leg or helmet, while another lot threatens to tear your shirt back to rags. When you are hooked, you cannot free yourself by forcing forward; you must draw gingerly back, and extricate each barb with commendable patience; be impatient, and you will instantly be hooked up worse than ever. I will carry memories of Mgoonga as long as I live. But the bush is not all dense, and this morning, after an hour’s travelling, we found more open spaces, along which one could sometimes look to right or left or in front, for fifty yards or so. We were then well out from camp, and, with a cross wind from the south aiding us, we judged we could safely fire our rifles without fear of sound of report reaching back to head-quarters. [Sidenote: HUNTING FOR FOOD] In whispers we agreed “all clear,” and the locks of our rifles clicked, as cartridges were slipped into place, ready for action, while the boy dropped fifty yards behind, as we moved ahead in Indian file, silently, alertly, Gilham leading. We were hungry, and we meant to have meat!