(2 of 2)
His simple hunting technique called for nothing but maximum nerve and courage. He would charge straight into "a mass of giant reptiles" with the boat at full speed, "firing at point-blank range at each selected target." A native helper gaffed each carcass before the boat buzzed on to the next victim. Dempster varied this technique by camping on sandy islets in midriver, baiting the edges with hippo meat, and shooting the crocs approximately at his feet. In his first three weeks of this kind of hunting, he killed and skinned 162 crocodiles. For the hides, used in wallets, belts and shoes, he netted a first-season profit of £3,000 (about $12,000 at the time).
Ministers Are Serious. Like many another professional hunter, Dempster was a simple, primitive type. Though he soon knew about all there was to know about crocodiles, it never occurred to him to save his own hide by hunting in waterproof clothes. Soaked to the skin night after night, he ached with chronic rheumatism, grew thin and pale with typhoid. Moreover, as it must to every primitive, civilization began to creep up on him. Hydroelectricians invaded his favorite gorge and built a dam. The Rhodesian Minister of Games and Forests officially forbade him the use of another great stretch of the teeming river. "Shooting any creature in vast numbers," he explained patiently, "upsets the balance of nature." "Good God!" cried Dempster. 'You're serious!"
He moved over the border into Portugese East Africa. Customs officers waited until he had collected a truckful of hides, and then pounced. Warned in time, Dempster escaped, hides and all, back over the border into Rhodesia. But by then he knew the jig was up; in the modern world, even crocodiles must be 'armed if a man wants them in large quantities.
When Author Earl met him, the gaunt hunter was wandering London, saying, in bewildered tones: "I don't know how to thrust myself into the money market. Somebody said that Lord Bracken . . . might be interested ... I phoned, but his secretary said nothing doing. I thought of Lord Beaverbrook . . ."
Earl has never seen Bryan Dempster again, nor has anybody else, to his knowledge. But he has heard rumors of a white hunter shooting crocodiles "somewhere on Lake Nyasa," and thinks he must be Dempster. He is also confident that Dempster will return again one day with another story to tell. By which timer with any luck, Earl will have found a plainer prose to tell it in.