One tracker now leads the way, and they cautiously proceed.

The boughs are heard slightly rustling as the unconscious elephants are fanning the flies from their bodies within a hundred yards of the guns.
The jungle is open and good, interspersed with plots of rank grass; and quietly following the head tracker, into whose hands our friends have committed themselves, they follow like hounds under the control of a huntsman.

The tracker is a famous fellow, and he brings up his employers in a masterly manner within ten paces of the still unconscious elephants.

He now retreats quietly behind the guns, and the sport begins.

A cloud of smoke from a regular volley, a crash through the splintering branches as the panic-stricken herd rush from the scene of conflict, and it is all over.