At last they came to the camp of a tribe of savages called Masai.  As they were still four miles from their own camp and as the porters were about exhausted from carrying the lion, they decided to go in there, skin the lion and rest for a while.  There was some trouble about this, as the Masai feared that the scent of the dead lion would scare their cattle.  They agreed at last, however, admitted the white men and the porters, and stood about, in the fire-light, leaning on their spears, and laughing, while the lion was being skinned.  They gave Roosevelt milk to drink and seemed pleased to have a call from “Bwana Makuba,” the Great Chief, as the porters called him.

So here was an Ex-President of the United States, not many months from his work as Chief Magistrate in the Capitol of a civilized nation, talking to a group of savages, who in their dwellings, weapons, clothing and customs had hardly changed in three thousand years; the twentieth century A. D. meeting the tenth century B.C.

At ten o’clock they got back to their own camp, and after a hot bath, sat down to a supper of eland venison and broiled spur fowl,—­“and surely no supper ever tasted more delicious.”

Another day, when hunting with the same companion he had the experience of being charged by a wounded lion.  It was a big, male lion, with a black and yellow mane.  They chased him on horseback for about two miles.  Then he stopped and hid behind a bush.  A shot wounded him slightly and, Mr. Tarlton, Roosevelt’s companion, an experienced lion-hunter, told him that the lion was sure to charge.

Again I knelt and fired; but the mass of hair on the lion made me think he was nearer than he was, and I undershot, inflicting a flesh wound that was neither crippling nor fatal.  He was already grunting savagely and tossing his tail erect, with his head held low; and at the shot the great sinewy beast came toward us with the speed of a greyhound.  Tarlton then very properly fired, for lion hunting is no child’s play, and it is not good to run risks.  Ordinarily it is a very mean thing to experience joy at a friend’s miss, but this was not an ordinary case, and I felt keen delight when the bullet from the badly sighted rifle missed, striking the ground many yards short.  I was sighting carefully from my knee, and I knew I had the lion all right; for though he galloped at a great pace he came on steadily—­ears laid back, and uttering terrific coughing grunts—­and there was now no question of making allowance for distance, nor, as he was out in the open, for the fact that he had not before been distinctly visible.  The bead of my foresight was exactly on the center of his chest as I pressed the trigger, and the bullet went as true as if the place had been plotted with dividers.  The blow brought him up all standing, and he fell forward on his head.