THE BUNGALOW FROM WHICH THE AUTHOR AND HIS COMPANIONS STARTED OUT ON THEIR SHOOTING TRIP.
From a Photograph.
There was no planter in Jamaica to compare with Corker as a hunter—certainly there was none who could show so many pelts and heads; and if some of his stories were rather "tall," many of them had a strong basis of fact, as evidenced by the size of the "bags" which always accompanied his return from a shooting trip. As Jamaica itself contains no big game other than alligator, one has to go to the adjoining American continent for this class of shooting; and this fact formed the assailable spot in Corker's reputation, for there were those on the island who hinted darkly of New York naturalists, and suggested that literature lost a great light when Corker became a planter.
Anyhow, I refrained from intruding such rude remarks on the peace of our party out of respect for the feelings of my host and consideration for the enthusiasm of his other two listeners.
After Corker had told his customary concluding yarn, we fell to discussing where on Corker's walls could space be found to accommodate the alligator hides he, with us to help him, was about to secure.
The next morning we tumbled from under our mosquito-nets and, after a hasty breakfast, made a start. Corker had already sent on our arms, which, in addition to our shooting impedimenta and flaying-knives, consisted of a case of soda-water, a block of swathed ice, and two bottles of what Corker called "milk," to neutralize the effects of the swamp for which we were bound.
Mounting our native ponies, we rode down through the plantation by a short cut. Through tobacco fields and fields of guinea grass as high as our saddles, and down hill-sides as steep as the roof of a house, dodging palms and banana trees en route, our ponies took us, never faltering or making a false step, until, after a three-mile ride, we arrived at Constant Spring. At this place we sent back our mounts and did the remaining six miles into Kingston on an up-to-date electric tram-car.
Through the hot, dusty suburbs, past crowds of native women on their way to market, their heads laden with produce, their bare feet padding the scorched road, past dismantled residences with walls torn asunder by the earthquake of a year ago, into the stricken city of Kingston itself our car carried us, until at length we reached the harbour-side and inhaled deep breaths of the grand breeze which comes across the Caribbean Sea.