Again there was a report, and next we saw Fellowes running with all his might, followed by the lion.
What ensued may best be given in his own words, as narrated to us that night.
“I had evidently missed my first shot, and whilst putting in my other cartridge, I saw the brute making for me; again I fired, and I saw it staggered him, but still he came on, and seeing a small pond a few yards off I decided to make for that. Barely had I risen to my feet when, with a roar, the brute was close behind me, and at the very moment I dashed into the pond he aimed a blow at me which grazed my forehead, and I fell prostrate into it. On recovering I cautiously peeped, and there the brute stood on the edge within three yards of me. Again I submerged, but every time I moved for air he roared, although afraid to enter the water. This went on for an hour, when conceive my delight at seeing him roll over from loss of blood.
“Cautiously approaching, I found he was stone dead.”
Fellowes had literally escaped death by a hair’s breadth; but the scar he carried with him to his grave affected his brain, and he was never the same man again. Had the lion been one inch nearer his skull would have been smashed like an egg shell. Years after I saw the lion’s head and shoulders at a well-known naturalist’s in Piccadilly, depicted life-like dashing out of the rushes that encircled the African pond.
Our excitement for big game being temporarily satiated after our comrade’s narrow escape, we decided to direct our steps towards more peaceful pastures in the neighbourhood of Stellenbosch. Here large ostrich farms exist, and it was a unique experience to watch drafts of these huge birds being transferred from one farm to another. The procedure is original. Two or three mounted Kaffirs with long driving whips circle round and round the twenty or thirty birds, lashing them unmercifully on their bare legs till they start into a trot, which eventually ends in a pace that the riders at full gallop have difficulty in keeping up with. In my search for information I was assured that the feathers so much in demand for “matinee hats” were moulted from the birds; but this I found to be not strictly accurate, and much cruel “plucking” passed under my own observation. Ostrich egg omelette is delicious; six of us breakfasted off one egg, and my sensations were as if I had swallowed an omnibus.
But perhaps the most ridiculous experience to be obtained in South Africa is associated with the (apparently) inoffensive penguin. Any one looking at these sedate creatures at the Zoological Gardens would hardly believe that they can bite and take a piece out of one’s calf with the dexterity of a bull-terrier. It was shortly after the experience above related that we turned our steps towards Penguin Island, which lies to the south of Table Bay. We had been offered a “cast over” in one of the fishing boats that proceed there periodically in the interests of the lessee who, renting this valuable island for a few pounds a year, makes an enormous income by the sale of the guano.
We had landed cheerily, and were roaring at the absurd attitudes taken up under every ledge and stone by these pompous old birds, when poor Bobby, going a little too close, was seized by the leg with the grip of a rat-trap.
When the guano parties visit the island they combine another industry, and collect some thousands of eggs, which are considered a delicacy by the Africander gourmets.
Personally, I found them too strong, although I plead guilty to having massacred some fifty penguins by knocking them on the head for the sake of their breasts. The oil that exhales from them for months, despite the alum and sifted ashes, is incredible; but they will repay the trouble, and after scientific manipulation by a London furrier are highly appreciated for muffs and boas.