Bacheet quickly gave me the single two-ounce Manton rifle, and I singled out a fine dark-colored bull, who fell on his knees to the shot, but, recovering, hobbled off disabled, apart from the herd, with a foreleg broken just below the shoulder.

Reloading immediately, I ran up to the spot, where I found my first giraffe lying dead, with the ball clean through both shoulders.

The second was standing about one hundred paces distant.

Upon my approach he attempted to move, but immediately fell, and was despatched by my eager Arabs.

I followed the herd for about a mile to no purpose, through deep clammy ground and high grass, and I returned to our game.
These were my first giraffes, and I admired them as they lay before me with a hunter's pride and satisfaction, but mingled with a feeling of pity for such beautiful and utterly helpless creatures.