He had only one tusk, but that a big one, and the weight of it caused him to hold his head at a drunken-looking angle.
"Stop the train!" yelled Coutlass, brandishing his rifle as he climbed to the seat on the roof.

But the guard, likewise on the roof at his end of the train, gave no signal and we speeded on.

We were already in the world's greatest game reserve, where no man might shoot elephant or any other living thing.
We began to pass herds of zebra, gnu, and lesser antelope--more than a thousand zebra in one herd--ostriches in ones and twos--giraffes in scared half-dozens--rhinoceros--and here and there lone lions.
Scarcely an animal troubled to look up at us, and only the giraffes ran.
Watching them, counting them, distinguishing the various breeds we three grew enormously contented, even Will Yerkes banishing depression.
Obviously we were in a land of good hunting, for the strictly policed reserve had its limits beyond which undoubtedly the game would roam.
The climate seemed perfect.

There was a steady wind, not too cold or hot, and the rains were recent enough to make all the world look green and bounteous.
To right and left of us--to north and south that is--was wild mountain country, lonely and savage enough to arouse that unaccountable desire to go and see that lurks in the breast of younger sons and all true-blue adventurers.

We got out a map and were presently tracing on it with fingers that trembled from excitement routes marked with tiny vague dots leading toward lands marked "unexplored." There were vast plateaus on which not more than two or three white men had trodden, and mountain ranges almost utterly unknown--some of them within sight of the line we traveled on.