About once an hour, Grand would stop and dramatically raise his hand, bringing the entire safari to a halt, while he and one of his trusty natives (heretofore known as the “best guide in Central Africa”) would sniff the air, nostrils flared and quivering, eyes a bit wild.
“There’s cat in the bush,” Guy would say tersely, and while the rest of the party looked on in pure amazement, Grand, big helmet completely obscuring his sight, would take up the huge gun and, staggering under its weight, brace it against the great cushion at his stomach, and blindly fire one of the mammoth shells into the bush, blasting a wide swath through the tall grass and felling trees as though they were stalks of corn. The recoil of the weapon would fling Grand about forty feet backwards through the air where he would land in a heap, apparently unconscious.
“The baby packs a man-sized recoil,” Guy would say later. “The Mannlicher, of course, is nothing more than a toy.”
Due to the extreme noise produced by the discharge of the 75, any actual game in the area was several miles away by the time the reverberations were stilled—so that these safaris would often go from start to finish without ever firing a shot, other than the occasional big boom from Grand’s 75.
African hunting expeditions are serious and expensive affairs, and this kind of tomfoolery cost Grand a pretty penny. It did provide another amusing page for his memory book though—and the old native guides seemed to enjoy it as well.
XV
“Hold on, here’s a bit of news,” said Guy then, suddenly brightening in his big chair and smartly slapping the newspaper spread across his lap. The banner read:
PRESIDENT ASKS NATION FOR FAITH
IN GIANT SPACE PROGRAM
Jackass Payload Promised
He read it aloud in sonorous tones, but Ginger pooh-poohed the claim.
“Probably one of these teeny-weeny Mexican burros!” she cried. “Jackass indeed!” She was a notorious foe of the administration.