A week passed, and we went out shooting every day, and shot a heap of
game. One morning, just as we were entering the forest, Glahn gripped me
by the arm and whispered: “Stop!” At the same moment he threw up his
rifle and fired. It was a young leopard he had shot, I might have fired
myself, but Glahn kept the honour to himself and fired first. Now he'll
boast of that later on, I said to myself. We went up to the dead beast.
It was stone dead, the left flank all torn up and the bullet in its
back.
Now I do not like being gripped by the arm, so I said:
“I could have managed that shot myself.”
Glahn looked at me.