In Africa, men drinking without women

So where were we? Oh, right, the novel. We pick up with …

Francis Macomber and I were sitting in the shade of Kilimanjaro .

We were drinking with both hands and discussing how good it was to kill.

It was especially good to kill animals. Big animals. With teeth. Or horns.

“Is it not good to kill?” I asked.

Macomber smiled.

“Yes,” he said. “It is. But it must be done properly.”

We drank. A hyena howled in the distance.

“The only life worth living is a series of acts done properly,” I said.

“Yes,” Macomber said. “It is true.”

He opened another bottle . The tent was a clean, well-lighted place. We sat there and drank from our tin cups.

We drank like the men we were.

“This is good drink,” I said.

“Yes,” Macomber said. “We are drinking it well.”

“And properly,” I said.

Macomber smiled. The hyena howled.

It was a good night. And tomorrow we would kill.