until at last he gave up trying to ease it, and bore it as well as he
could.

And then, one evening when it was getting cool and peaceful, and the
evening shadows were beginning to make everything look dim and misty,
a boat came softly over the water, and once more a man stood up in it,
and once more threw a harpoon at Hippo, who had been standing so still
that the boat had been able to come quite close, and the hunter to
take good, steady aim.

The harpoon this time went straight into one of Hippo's eyes, and,
although it was a cruel stroke, it was also a merciful one, for it
touched the brain, and in a very few minutes Hippo, with a few
spasmodic efforts, blew his last blast of rage, snorted and groaned
for the last time, and, with a mighty stirring of the waters, rolled
heavily over in the African river, by the side of which he had been
born, and died.

And then the hunters threw up their caps and cheered for joy, for they
had at least killed one of their enemies and one of the finest
specimens in the whole herd. As, at the time of his death, he had been
standing in a shallow part of the river, it was possible with great
trouble to drag the huge carcass out, but it took the strength of ten
horses and the ingenuity of as many men to do it.

The hunters measured him carefully, and found that he measured nearly
twelve feet from one end of his body to the other, that he stood about
four feet high, and that his tusks, hide and teeth were the best and
finest that had been seen for many a day. It turned out to be a
fortunate thing that Hippo had been in such a dangerous mood during