On the last day of 1908, in a morning walk at Myaungmya, Lower Burma,
I met two acquaintances, Messrs Dunn and M'Kenzie, riding home. They
had elected to enjoy their Christmas holidays a-hunting, and been away
for several days.
"Hunting what?"
"Buffalo."
"I believe the buffalo is a dangerous beast to tackle."
They looked at each other in a way that showed they had an adventure
to tell. They had gone with another European and a crowd of followers
to a muddy island in the delta, where a wild bull buffalo lived. They
had failed to find him, and were all walking carelessly away, when he
accidentally met them. The sight of a mob where he had lived alone,
like Robinson Crusoe, startled the old bull, and he charged. Then
magistrates, policemen and followers stampeded in many directions.
With the instinct inherited from our forgotten arboreal ancestors, the
fugitives sought refuge in the trees; but the trees were too small to
lift them above the reach of the horns, and one or more would have
been killed if Mr Dunn had not stumbled and fallen in the mud. This
stopped the buffalo, which tried to pick him up, but could not do it,
as he had the sense to lie flat. So it passed on; and Dunn then
crawled to where his servant had dropped his gun, and recovered it,
and shot the buffalo.