He was creeping up the right-hand bank of a stream, his only chance lying in the noise of the waters, which might serve to deaden the sound of broken twig or rustling leaf.
This sportsman was Jack Meredith, and it was evident that he was bringing to bear upon the matter in hand that intelligence and keenness of perception which had made him a person of some prominence in other scenes where Nature has a less assured place.
It would appear that he was not so much at home in the tangle of an African forest as in the crooked paths of London society; for his clothes were torn in more than one place; a mosquito, done to sudden death, adhered sanguinarily to the side of his aristocratic nose, while heat and mental distress had drawn damp stripes down his countenance.
His hands were scratched and inclined to bleed, and one leg had apparently been in a morass.

Added to these physical drawbacks there was no visible sign of success, which was probably the worst part of Jack Meredith's plight.
Since sunset he had been crawling, scrambling, stumbling up the bank of this stream in relentless pursuit of some large animal which persistently kept hidden in the tangle across the bed of the river.

The strange part of it was that when he stopped to peep through the branches the animal stopped too, and he found no way of discovering its whereabouts.

More than once they remained thus for nearly five minutes, peering at each other through the heavy leafage.

It was distinctly unpleasant, for Meredith felt that the animal was not afraid of him, and did not fully understand the situation.