I had previously given Bacheet a pistol, and had ordered him to
follow on the opposite bank from the ford at Wat el Negur. I now
hallooed to him to fire several shots at the hippo, in order to
drive him, if possible, towards me, as I lay in ambush behind a
rock in the bed of the river. Bacheet descended the almost
perpendicular bank to the water's edge, and after having chaffed
the hippo considerably, he fired a shot with the pistol, which
was far more dangerous to us on the opposite side than to the
animal. The hippo, who was a wicked solitary old bull, accustomed
to have his own way, returned the insult by charging towards
Bacheet with a tremendous snorting, that sent him scrambling up
the steep bank in a panic, amidst a roar of laughter from the
people on my side concealed in the bushes. In this peal of
merriment I thought I could distinguish a voice closely
resembling that of my wife. However, Bacheet, who had always
longed to be brought face to face with some foe worthy of his
steel, had bolted, and he now stood safe in his elevated position
on the top of the bank, thirty feet above the river, and fired
the second barrel in bold defiance at the hippopotamus.
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