He dressed his own wounds and the natives tried to carry him to the nearest settlement.

Finally his bandages were exhausted, the natives deserted, and it was only after frightful suffering that he reached help.

In three weeks blood poisoning set in, as is usual after the foul teeth of a lion have entered the flesh, and for several months he was close to death.
Now he was up and about, cheerful and sunny, but a serious object lesson to the lion hunters bound for the lair of the lion.
In the smoking-room of the _Adolph Woermann_ was a bronze bust of Mr.
Woermann presented by himself.

Whether he meant to perpetuate his own memory is not vital to the story.

The amusing feature lies in the fact that some irreverent passenger, whose soul was dead to the sacredness of art, put a rough slouch hat on Mr.Woermann one night, with side-splitting results.