{"collection":"folklore-oral-tradition","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_36951/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_36951","id":"gutenberg_36951","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/36951","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Adventure","Category: Novels","Dogs -- Biography","Dogs -- Folklore","Hunting -- South Africa -- Transvaal","Transvaal (South Africa) -- Description and travel"],"text":"</pre>\n\n\n\nProduced by Nick Hodson of London, England\n\n\n\n\nJock of the Bushveld\nBy Sir Percy FitzPatrick\nIllustrations by E. Caldwell\nPublished by Longmans, Green, and Co, London.\nThis edition dated 1922.\nJock of the Bushveld, by Sir Percy FitzPatrick.\n\n________________________________________________________________________\n\n________________________________________________________________________\nJOCK OF THE BUSHVELD, BY SIR PERCY FITZPATRICK.\n\n\nPREFACE.\n\n\"Sonny, you kin reckon it dead sure, thar's something wrong 'bout a\nthing that don't explain itself.\"\n\nThat was Old Rocky's advice, given three-and-twenty years ago--not\nforgotten yet, but, in this instance, respectfully ignored.\n\nIt happened some years ago, and this was the way of it: the Fox of\nBallybotherem having served three generations--in his native Tipperary,\nin Kaffraria, and in the Transvaal--seemed entitled to a rest; and when,\nin the half-hour before `lights out,' which is the Little People's\nparticular own, the demand came from certain Autocrats of the Nightgown:\n\"Now, tell us something else!\" it occurred to the Puzzled One to tell of\nJock's fight with the table leg.  And that is how the trouble began.\nThose with experience will know what followed; and, for those less\nfortunate, the modest demand of one, comfortably tucked up tailorwise,\nand emphasising his points by excited hand-shakes with his toes, will\nconvey the idea: \"It must be _all true_! and don't leave out\n_anything_!\"\n\nTo such an audience a story may be told a hundred times, but it must be\ntold, as Kipling says, \"Just so!\" that is, in the same way; because,\neven a romance (what a three-year-old once excused as \"only a play\ntell\") must be true--to itself!\n\nOnce Jock had taken the field it was not long before the narrator found\nhimself helped or driven over the pauses by quick suggestions from the\nGallery; but there were days of fag and worry when thoughts lagged or\nstrayed, and when slips were made, and then a vigilant and pitiless\nmemory swooped like the striking falcon on its prey.  There came a night\nwhen the story was of the Old Crocodile, and one in the Gallery--one of\nmore exuberant fancy--seeing the gate open ran into the flower-strewn\nfield of romance and by suggestive questions and eager promptings helped\nto gather a little posy: \"And he caught the Crocodile by the tail,\ndidn't he?\"  \"And he hung on and fought him, didn't he?\"  \"And the Old\nCrocodile flung him high into the air?  High!\" and, turning to the two\njuniors, added \"quite as high as the house?\"  And the narrator--\naccessory by reason of a mechanical nod and an absent-minded \"Yes\"\npassed on, thinking it could all be put right next time.  But there is\nno escape from the `tangled web' when the Little People sit in judgment.\nIt was months later when retribution came.  The critical point of the\nstory was safely passed when--Oh; the irony and poetic justice of it--it\nwas the innocent tempter himself who laid his hand in solemn protest on\nthe narrator's shoulder and, looking him reproachfully in the eyes, said\n\"Dad!  You have left out the best part of all.  Don't you remember\nhow...\"\n\nAnd the description which followed only emphasises the present writer's\nunfitness for the task he has undertaken.  In the text of the story and\nin the illustration by my friend Mr Caldwell (who was himself subjected\nto the same influence) there is left a loophole for fancy: it is open to\nany one to believe that Jock is just beginning or just ending his aerial\nexcursion.  The Important People are not satisfied; but then the page is\nnot big enough to exhibit Jock at the top of that flight--of fancy!\n\nFrom the date of that lesson it was apparent that reputations would\nsuffer if the story of Jock were not speedily embodied in some durable\nand authoritative form, and during a long spell of ill health many of\nthe incidents were retold in the form of letters to the Little People.\nOther Less Important Persons--grown-ups--read them and sometimes heard\nthem, and so it came about that the story of Jock was to be printed for\nprivate circulation, for the Little People and their friends.  Then the\nstory was read in manuscript and there came still more ambitious\ncounsels, some urging the human story of the early days, others the wild\nanimal life of South Africa.  Conscious of many deficiencies the\nnarrator has left two great fields practically untouched, adhering to\nthe original idea--the story of Jock; and those who come into it, men\nand animals, come in because of him and the life in which he played so\nlarge a part.  The attempt to adapt the original letters to the symmetry\nof a connected story involved, as one might have known, endless trouble\nand changes, necessitating complete re-writing of most parts; and the\nresponsibility and work became still greater when, after a casual and\nunforeseen meeting, my friend Mr Caldwell accepted the suggestion to\ncome out to South Africa and spend six months with us in order to study\nthe game in its native bush and to know the conditions of the life and\nput that experience into the work of illustrating \"Jock.\"\n\nThe writer is well aware that, from the above causes and one other,\nthere are grave inequalities in style and system, and in plane of phrase\nand thought, in different parts of the book.  For this feature the `one\nother' cause is alone put forward as a defence.  The story belongs to\nthe Little People, and their requirements were defined--\"It must be _all\ntrue_!  Don't leave out _anything_!\"  It has been necessary to leave out\na great deal; but the other condition has been fully and fairly complied\nwith; for it is a true story from beginning to end.  It is not a diary:\nincidents have been grouped and moved to get over the difficulty of\nblank days and bad spells, but there is no incident of importance or of\ncredit to Jock which is not absolutely true.  The severest trial in this\nconnection was in the last chapter, which is bound to recall perhaps the\nmost famous and most cherished of all dog stories.  Much, indeed, would\nhave been sacrificed to avoid that; but it was unthinkable that, for any\nreason, one should in the last words shatter the spell that holds Jock\ndear to those for whom his life is chronicled--the spell that lies in `a\ntrue story.'\n\nLittle by little the book has grown until it has come perilously near\nthe condition in which it might be thought to have Pretensions.  It has\nnone!  It is what it was: a simple record, compiled for the interest and\nsatisfaction of some Little People, and a small tribute of remembrance\nand affection offered at the shrine of the old life and those who made\nit--tendered in the hope that some one better equipped with\nopportunities and leisure may be inspired to do justice to it and to\nthem for the sake of our native land.\n\n\nCHAPTER ONE.\n\nTHE BACKGROUND.\n\nOf the people who live lonely lives, on the veld or elsewhere, few do so\nof their own free choice.  Some there are shut off from all their kind--\nsouls sheathed in some film invisible, through which no thrill of\nsympathy may pass; some barred by their self-consciousness, heart hungry\nstill, who never learned in childhood to make friends; some have a\nsecret or a grief; some, thoughts too big or bad for comradeship.  But\nmost will charge to Fate the thoughtless choice, the chance, or hard\nnecessity, that drew or drove them to the life apart; they know the\nlesson that was learned of old: \"It is not good for man to be alone.\"\n\nGo out among them, ever moving on, whose white bones mark the way for\nothers' feet--who shun the cities, living in the wilds, and move in\nsilence, self-contained.  Who knows what they think, or dream, or hope,\nor suffer?  Who can know?  For speech among that hard-schooled lot is\nbut a half-remembered art.\n\nYet something you may guess, since with the man there often goes--his\ndog; his silent tribute to The Book.  Oh, it's little they know of life\nwho cannot guess the secret springs of loneliness and love that prompt\nthe keeping of a trifling pet; who do not know what moves a man who\ndaily takes his chance of life and death--man whose \"breath is in his\nnostrils\"--to lay his cheek against the muzzle of his comrade dog, and\nin the trackless miles of wilderness feel he has a friend.  Something to\nhold to; something to protect.\n\nThere was old Blake--\"mad, quite mad,\" as everybody knew--of whom they\nvaguely said that horses, hounds, coaches, covers, and all that goes\nwith old estates, were his--once.  We knew him poor and middle-aged.\nHow old to us!  Cheery and unpractical, with two old pointers and a\nfowling-piece, and a heart as warm as toast.  We did not ask each\nother's business there; and, judging by the dogs and gun, we put him\ndown as a `remittance man.'  But that, it seems, was wrong.  They were\nhis all.\n\nHe left no letters--a little pile of paper ash; no money and no food!\nThat was his pride.  He would not sell or give away his dogs!  That was\nhis love.  When he could not keep them it seemed time to go!  That was\nhis madness.  But before he went, remembering a friend in hospital, he\nborrowed two cartridges and brought him in a brace of birds.  That was\nold mad Blake, who `moved on' and took his dogs with him, because they\nhad always been together, and he could not leave their fate to chance.\nSo we buried him with one on either side, just as he would have liked\nit!\n\nThere was Turner, who shot the crocodile that seized his dog, and\nreckless of the others, swam in and brought the dog to land.\n\nThere was the dog that jumped in when his master slipped from the rock,\nand, swimming beside him, was snapped down in his stead!  And there was\nthe boy who tried a rescue in the dark--when a rustle, yelp and growl\ntold that the lions had his dog--and was never seen again.\n\nSo it goes, and so it went, from year to year: a little showing now and\nthen, like the iceberg's tip, from which to guess the bulk below.\n\nThere was a Boy who went to seek his fortune.  Call him boy or man: the\nyears proved nothing either way!  Some will be boyish always; others\nwere never young: a few--most richly dowered few--are man and boy\ntogether.  He went to seek his fortune, as boys will and should; no\npressure on him from about; no promise from beyond.  For life was easy\nthere, and all was pleasant, as it may be--in a cage.  `To-day' is sure\nand happy; and there is no `to-morrow'--in a cage.\n\nThere were friends enough--all kind and true--and in their wisdom they\nsaid: \"Here it is safe: yonder all is chance, where many indeed are\ncalled, but few--so few--are chosen.  Many have gone forth; some to\nreturn, beaten, hopeless, and despised; some to fall in sight outside;\nothers are lost, we know not where; and ah! so few are free and well.\nBut the fate of numbers is unheeded still; for the few are those who\ncount, and lead; and those who follow do not think `How few,' but cry\n`How strong!  How free!'  Be wise and do not venture.  Here it is safe:\nthere is no fortune there!\"\n\nBut there was something stronger than the things he knew, around,\nwithout, beyond--the thing that strove within him: that grew and grew,\nand beat and fought for freedom: that bade him go and walk alone and\ntell his secret on the mountain slopes to one who would not laugh--a\nlittle red retriever; that made him climb and feel his strength, and\nfind an outlet for what drove within.  And thus the end was sure; for of\nall the voices none so strong as this!  And only those others reached\nhim that would chime with it; the gentle ones which said: \"We too\nbelieve,\" and one, a stronger, saying: \"Fifty years ago I did it.  I\nwould do it now again!\"\n\nSo the Boy set out to seek his fortune, and did not find it; for there\nwas none in the place where he sought.  Those who warned him were--in\nthe little--right: yet was he--in the greater--right too!  It was not\ngiven to him as yet to know that fortune is not in time or place or\nthings; but, good or bad, in the man's own self for him alone to find\nand prove.\n\nTime and place and things had failed him; still was effort right; and,\nwhen the first was clear beyond all question, it was instinct and not\nknowledge bade him still go on, saying: \"Not back to the cage.  Anything\nbut that!\"\n\nWhen many days had passed, it was again a friend who met him, saying:\n\"Commonsense is not cowardice.  You have made a mistake: repair it while\nyou may.  I have seen and know: there is nothing here.  Come back with\nme, and all will be made easy.\"  And answer, in reason, there was none;\nfor the little truth was all too plain, and the greater not yet seen.\nBut that which had swelled to bursting and had fought within for freedom\ncalled out: \"Failure is the worst of all!\"  And the blind and struggling\ninstinct rose against all knowledge and all reason.  \"Not back to the\ncage!  Not that!\"\n\nAnd the heart that had once been young spoke up for Auld Lang Syne: the\nold eyes softened and dropped: \"God speed you, Boy--Good-bye!\"  And as\nthe mail-coach rumbled off the Boy put up his head--to try again.\n\nThe days passed, and still there was no work to do.  For, those who were\nthere already--hardened men and strong, pioneers who had roughed it--\nwere themselves in straitened case, and it was no place for boys.\n\nSo the Boy moved on again, and with him a man in, equal plight, but,\nbeing a man, a guide and comfort to the Boy, and one to lead him on the\nway.  Hungry, they walked all day; yet when the sun went down and light\nbegan to fail the place where work and food and sleep should be was\nstill far off.  The mountain tracks were rough and all unknown; the\nrivers many, cold and swift: the country wild; none lived, few ever\npassed, that way.  When night closed in the Boy walked on in front, and\nthe man lagged wearily, grumbling at their luck.  In the valley at the\nmountain foot they came at midnight upon water, black and still, between\nthem and the cabin's lights beyond; and there the man lay down.  Then\nthe Boy, turning in his anger, bade him come on; and, dragging him out\nupon the further bank, had found--unknowing--some little of the fortune\nhe had come to seek.\n\nStill, morning brought no change; still, was there no work to do.  So\nthe man gave up, and sagging back, was lost.  And the Boy went on alone.\n\nRough and straight-spoken, but kindly men and true, were those he came\namong.  What they could they did: what they had they gave.  They made\nhim free of board and bed; and, kinder still, now and then made work for\nhim to do, knowing his spirit was as theirs and that his heart cried\nout: \"Not charity, but work!  Give me work!\"  But that they could not\ndo, for there was no work they could not do themselves.\n\nThus the days and weeks went by.  Willing, but unused to fend for\nhimself--unfit by training for the wild rough life, heart and energy all\nto waste, the little he did know of no value there--the struggle with\nthe ebbing tide went on; it was the wearing hopeless fight against that\nwhich one cannot grapple, and cannot even see.  There was no work to be\ndone.  A few days here and there; a little passing job; a helping hand\ndisguised; and then the quest again.  They were all friendly--but, with\nthe kindly habit of the place: it told the tale of hopelessness too\nwell.  They did not even ask his name; it made no difference.\n\nThen came a day when there was nowhere else to try.  Among the lounging\ndiggers at their week-end deals he stood apart--too shy, too proud to\ntell the truth; too conscious of it to trust his voice; too hungry to\nsmile as if he did not care!  And then a man in muddy moleskins, with\ngrave face, brown beard, and soft blue eyes, came over to him, saying\nstraight: \"Boy, you come along o' me!\"  And he went.\n\nIt was work--hard work.  But the joy of it!  Shovelling in the icy\nwater, in mud and gravel, and among the boulders, from early dawn to\ndark.  What matter?  It was work.  It was not for hire, but just to help\none who had helped him; to `earn his grub' and feel he was a man, doing\nthe work of his friend's partner, `who was away.'\n\nFor three full weeks the Boy worked on; grateful for the toil; grateful\nfor the knowledge gained; most grateful that he could by work repay a\nkindness.  And then the truth came out!  The kindly fiction fell away as\nthey sat and rested on the day of rest.  \"The claim could not stand two\nwhite men's grub\" had fallen from the man, accounting for his partner's\nabsence.\n\nIt was the simple and unstudied truth and calm unconsciousness of where\nit struck that gave the thrust its force; and in the clear still air of\nthe Sunday morning the Boy turned hot and cold and dizzy to think of his\nfolly, and of the kindness he had so long imposed upon.  It was a little\nspell before his lips would smile, and eyes and voice were firm enough\nto lie.  Then he said gently: If he could be spared--he had not liked to\nask before, but now the floods were over and the river turned perhaps it\ncould be managed--he would like to go, as there were letters waiting,\nand he expected news.\n\nUp the winding pathway over rocky ledge and grassy slope, climbing for\nan hour to the pass, the toil and effort kept the hot thoughts under.\nAt the top the Boy sat down to rest.  The green rock-crested mountains\nstood like resting giants all around: the rivers, silvered by the sun,\nthreaded their ways between: the air was clear, and cool, and still.\nThe world was very beautiful from there.\n\nFar, far below--a brownish speck beside the silver streak--stood the\ncabin he had left.  And, without warning, all came back on him.  What he\nhad mastered rose beyond control.  The little child that lies hidden in\nus all reached out--as in the dark--for a hand to hold; and there was\nnone.  His arms went up to hide the mocking glory of the day, and, face\nburied in the grass, he sobbed: \"Not worth my food!\"\n\nScience tells that Nature will recoup herself by ways as well defined as\nthose that rule mechanics.  The blood flows upward--and the brain's\nawhirl; the ebb-tide sets--and there is rest.  Whatever impulse sways\nthe guiding hand, we know that often when we need it most there comes\nrelief; gently, unbidden, unobserved.\n\nThe Boy slept, and there was peace awhile.  Then came faint echoes of\nthe waking thoughts--odd words shot out, of hope and resolution;\nmurmured names of those at home.  Once his hand went out and gently\ntouched the turf, reaching for the friend and comrade of the past--one\nwho knew his every mood, had heard his wildest dreams described, had\nseen him, hot-eyed, breathless, struggling to escape the cage; one to\nwhom the boyish soul was often bared in foolish confidence; one who\ncould see and hear and feel, yet never tell--a little red retriever left\nat home; and the boy stirred and sighed, for answer to the soft brown\neyes.\n\nNo!  It is not good for man to be alone.  A wisp of drifting cloud came\nby, a breath of cooler air, and the fickle spirit of the mountain\nchanged the day as with a wand.  The Boy woke up shivering, dazed,\nbewildered: the mountain of his dreams had vanished; and his dog was not\nthere!  The cold driving mist had blotted out the world.  Stronger and\nstronger grew the wind, driving the damp cold through and through; for\non the bleak plateau of the mountain nothing broke its force.\n\nPale and shaken, and a little stiff, he looked about; then slowly faced\nthe storm.  It had not struck him to turn back.\n\nThe gusts blew stronger, and through the mist came rain, in single\nstinging drops--portents of the greater storm.  Slowly, as he bent to\nbreast it, the chilled blood warmed, and when the first thunderclap\nsplit overhead, and lost itself in endless roars and rumblings in the\nkloofs and hills around, there came a warmth about his heart and a light\ninto his eye--mute thanksgiving that here was something he could battle\nwith and be a man again.\n\nOn the top of the world the storms work all their fury.  Only there come\nmist and wind and rain, thunder and lightning and hail together--the\npitiless terrible hail: there, where the hare hiding in the grass may\nknow it is the highest thing in all God's world, and nearest to the\nstorm--the one clear mark to draw the lightning--and, knowing, scurries\nto the sheltered slopes.\n\nBut the Boy pressed on--the little path a racing stream to guide him.\nThen in the one group of ghostly, mist-blurred rocks he stopped to\ndrink; and, as he bent--for all the blackness of the storm--his face\nleaped out at him, reflected for one instant in the shallow pool; the\nblue-white flame of lightning, blinding his aching eyes, hissed down;\nthe sickening smell of brimstone spread about; and crashing thunder\nclose above his head left him dazed and breathless.\n\nHeedless of the rain, blinking the blackness from his eyes, he sat still\nfor head to clear, and limbs to feel their life again; and, as he\nwaited, slowly there came upon a colder stiller air that other roar, so\nfar, so dull, so uniform; so weird and terrifying--the voice of the\ncoming hail.\n\nHuddled beneath the shelving rock he watched the storm sweep by with\nawful battering din that swamped and silenced every other sound--the\ntearing, smashing hail that seemed to strip the mountain to its very\nbone.\n\nOh! the wanton fury of the hail; the wild, destructive charge of hordes\nof savage cavalry; the stamping, smashing sweep along the narrow strip\nwhere all the fury concentrates; the long black trail of death and\ndesolation!  The birds and beasts, the things that creep and fly, all\nknow the portents, and all flee before it, or aside.  But in the\ndarkness--in the night or mist--the slow, the weak, the helpless, and\nthe mothers with their young--for them is little hope.\n\nThe dense packed column swept along, ruthless, raging, and unheeding,\noverwhelming all...  A sudden failing of its strength, a little\nstraggling tail, and then--the silence!\n\nThe sun came out; the wind died down; light veils of mist came slowly\nby--bits of floating gossamer--and melted in the clear, pure air.\n\nThe Boy stepped out once more.  Miles away the black column of the\nfalling hail sped its appointed course.  Under his feet, where all had\nbeen so green and beautiful, was battered turf, for the time transformed\ninto a mass of dazzling brilliants, where jagged ice-stones caught the\nsunlight on their countless facets, and threw it back in one fierce\nflashing glare, blinding in its brilliance.\n\nOn the glittering surface many things stood out.\n\nIn the narrow pathway near the spring a snake lay on its back, crushed\nand broken; beyond it, a tortoise, not yet dead, but bruised and\nbattered through its shell; then a partridge--poor unprotected thing--\nthe wet feathers lying all around, stripped as though a hawk had\nstricken it, and close behind it all the little brood; and further\nafield lay something reddish-brown--a buck--the large eyes glazed, an\nooze of blood upon its lips and nose.  He stooped to touch it, but drew\nback: the dainty little thing was pulp.\n\nAll striving for the sheltering rocks; all caught and stricken by the\nruthless storm; and he, going on to face it, while others fled before--\nhe, blindly fighting on--was spared.  Was it luck?  Or was there\nsomething subtle, more?  He held to this, that more than chance had\nswayed the guiding hand of fate--that fortune holds some gifts in store\nfor those who try; and faith resurgent moved him to a mute Te Deum, of\nwhich no more reached the conscious brain than: \"It is good to be alive!\nBut... better _so_ than in the cage.\"\n\nOnce more, a little of the fortune that he had come to seek!\n\nAt sunset, passing down the long rough gorge, he came upon one battling\nwith the flood to save his all--the white man struggling with the\nfrightened beasts; the kaffir swept from off his feet; the mad\nbewildered oxen yielding to the stream and heading downwards towards the\nfalls--and in their utmost need the Boy swam in and helped!\n\nAnd there the long slow ebb was stayed: the Boy was worth his food.\n\nBut how recall the life when those who made it set so little store by\nall that passed, and took its ventures for their daily lot; when those\nwho knew it had no gift or thought to fix the colours of the fading\npast: the fire of youth; the hopes; the toil; the bright illusions gone!\nAnd now, the Story of a Dog to conjure up a face, a name, a voice, or\nthe grip of a friendly hand!  And the half-dreamed sound of the tramping\nfeet is all that is left of the live procession long since passed: the\nyoung recruits; the laggards and the faint; the few who saw it through;\nthe older men--grave-eyed, thoughtful, unafraid--who judged the future\nby the battered past, and who knew none more nor less than man--\nunconscious equals of the best and least; the grey-hued years; the\nthinning ranks; the summons answered, as they had lived--alone.  The\ntale untold; and, of all who knew it, none left to picture now the life,\nnone left to play a grateful comrade's part, and place their record on a\ncountry's scroll--the kindly, constant, nameless Pioneers!\n\n\nCHAPTER TWO.\n\nINTO THE BUSHVELD.\n\n\"Distant hills are always green,\" and the best gold further on.  That is\na law of nature--human nature--which is quite superior to facts; and\nthus the world moves on.\n\nSo from the Lydenburg Goldfields prospectors `humping their swags' or\ndriving their small pack-donkeys spread afield, and transport-riders\nwith their long spans and rumbling waggons followed, cutting a wider\ntrack where traders with winding strings of carriers had already\nventured on.  But the hunters had gone first.  There were great hunters\nwhose names are known; and others as great who missed the accident of\nfame; and after them hunters who traded, and traders who hunted.  And so\ntoo with prospectors, diggers, transport-riders and all.\n\nBetween the goldfields and the nearest port lay the Bushveld, and game\nenough for all to live on.\n\nThus, all were hunters of a sort, but the great hunters--the hunters of\nbig game--were apart; we were the smaller fry, there to admire and to\nimitate.\n\nTrophies, carried back with pride or by force of habit, lay scattered\nabout, neglected and forgotten, round the outspans, the tents of lone\nprospectors, the cabins of the diggers, and the grass wayside shanties\nof the traders.  How many a `record' head must have gone then, when none\nhad thought of time or means to save them!  Horns and skins lay in\njumbled heaps in the yards or sheds of the big trading stores.  The\nsplendid horns of the Koodoo and Sable, and a score of others only less\nbeautiful, could be seen nailed up in crude adornment of the roughest\nwalls; nailed up, and then unnoticed and forgotten!  And yet not quite!\nFor although to the older hands they were of no further interest, to the\nnew-comer they spoke of something yet to see, and something to be done;\nand the sight set him dreaming of the time when he too would go\na-hunting and bring his trophies home.\n\nPerched on the edge of the Berg, we overlooked the wonder-world of the\nBushveld, where the big game roamed in thousands and the \"wildest tales\nwere true.\"  Living on the fringe of a hunter's paradise, most of us\nwere drawn into it from time to time, for shorter or longer spells, as\nopportunity and our circumstances allowed; and little by little one got\nto know the names, appearances, and habits of the many kinds of game\nbelow.  Long talks in the quiet nights up there under waggons, in grass\nshelters in the woods, or in the wattle-and-daub shanties of the\ndiggers, where men passed to and fro and swapped lies, as the polite\nphrase went, were our `night's entertainments,' when younger hands might\nlearn much that was useful and true, and more that was neither.\n\nIt was a school of grown-up schoolboys; no doubt a hard one, but it had\nits playground side, and it was the habit of the school to `drop on to'\nany breach of the unwritten laws, to `rub in' with remorseless good\nhumour the mistakes that were made, and to play upon credulity with a\nshamelessness and nerve quite paralysing to the judgment of the\ninexperienced.  Yet, with it all, there was a kindliness and quick\ninstinct of `fair doos' which tempered the wind and, in the main, gave\nno one more than was good for him.\n\nThere the new boy had to run the gauntlet, and, if without a watchful\ninstinct or a friendly hint, there was nothing to warn him of it.  When\nFaulkner--dragged to the piano--protested that he remembered nothing but\na mere `morceau,' he was not conscious of transgression, but a delighted\naudience caught up the word, and thenceforth he was known only as\n`Ankore'--Harry the Sailor having explained that `more so' was a\nrecognised variant.\n\n\"Johnny-come-lately's got to learn\" was held to be adequate reason for\nletting many a beginner buy his experience, while those who had been\nthrough it all watched him stumble into the well-known pitfalls.  It\nwould no doubt have been a much more comfortable arrangement all round\nhad there been a polite ignoring of each other's blunders and\nabsurdities.  But that is not the way of schools where the spirit of fun\nplays its useful part; and, after all, the lesson well `rubbed in' is\nwell remembered.\n\nThe new assayer, primed by us with tales of Sable Antelope round Macmac\nCamp, shot old Jim Hill's only goat, and had to leave the carcase with a\nnote of explanation--Jim being out when he called.  What he heard from\nus when he returned, all prickly with remorse and shame, was a liberal\neducation; but what he remembers best is Jim's note addressed that\nevening to our camp:\n\n\"Boys!  Jim Hill requests your company to dinner to-morrow, Sunday!\"\n\n\"Mutton!\"\n\nAs the summer spent itself, and whispers spread around of new strikes\nfurther on, a spirit of restlessness--a touch of trek fever--came upon\nus, and each cast about which way to try his luck.  Our camp was the\nsummer headquarters of two transport-riders, and when many months of\nhard work, timber-cutting on the Berg, contracting for the Companies,\npole-slipping in the bush, and other things, gave us at last a `rise,'\nit seemed the natural thing to put it all into waggons and oxen, and go\ntransport-riding too.\n\nThe charm of a life of freedom and complete independence--a life in\nwhich a man goes as and where he lists, and carries his home with him--\nis great indeed; but great too was the fact that hunting would go with\nit.\n\nHow the little things that mark a new departure stamp themselves\nindelibly on the memory!  A flower in the hedgerow where the roads\ndivide will mark the spot in one's mind for ever; and yet a million\nmore, before and after, and all as beautiful, are passed unseen.  In\nmemory, it is all as fresh, bright and glorious as ever: only the years\nhave gone.  The start, the trek along the plateau, the crystal streams,\nthe ferns and trees, the cool pure air; and, through and over all, the\nquite intoxicating sense of freedom!  Then came the long slow climb to\nSpitzkop where the Berg is highest and where our ascent began.  For\nthere, with Africa's contrariness, the highest parts banked up and\nbuttressed by gigantic spurs are most accessible from below, while the\nlower edges of the plateau are cut off sheer like the walls of some\ngreat fortress.  There, near Spitzkop, we looked down upon the promised\nland; there, stood upon the outmost edge, as a diver on his board, and\npaused and looked and breathed before we took the plunge.\n\nIt is well to pitch one's expectations low, and so stave off\ndisappointments.  But counsels of perfection are wasted on the young,\nand when accident combines with the hopefulness of youth to lay the\ncolours on in all their gorgeousness, what chance has Wisdom?\n\n\"See here, young feller!\" said Wisdom, \"don't go fill yourself up with\ntomfool notions 'bout lions and tigers waitin' behind every bush.  You\nwon't see one in a twelvemonth!  Most like you won't see a buck for a\nweek!  You don't know what to do, what to wear, how to walk, how to\nlook, or what to look for; and you'll make as much noise as a traction\nengine.  This ain't open country: it's bush; they can see and hear, and\nyou can't.  An' as for big game, you won't see any for a long while yet,\nso don't go fool yourself!\"\n\nExcellent!  But fortune in a sportive mood ordained that the very first\nthing we saw as we outspanned at Saunderson's on the very first day in\nthe Bushveld, was the fresh skin of a lion stretched out to dry.  What\nwould the counsels of Solomon himself have weighed against that wet\nskin?\n\nWisdom scratched its head and stared: \"Well, I am completely sugared!\"\n\nOf course it was a fluke.  No lions had been seen in the locality for\nseveral years; but the beginner, filled with all the wildest\nexpectations, took no heed of that.  If the wish be father to the\nthought, then surely fact may well beget conviction.  It was so in this\ncase, at any rate, and thus not all the cold assurances of Wisdom could\nbanish visions of big game as plentiful as partridges.\n\nA party had set out upon a tiger hunt to clear out one of those\nmarauders who used to haunt the kloofs of the Berg and make descents\nupon the Kaffir herds of goats and sheep; but there was a special\ninterest in this particular tiger, for he had killed one of the white\nhunters in the last attempt to get at him a few weeks before.  Starting\nfrom the store, the party of men and boys worked their way towards the\nkloof, and the possibility of coming across a lion never entered their\nheads.  No notice was taken of smaller game put up from time to time as\nthey moved carelessly along; a rustle on the left of the line was\nignored, and Bill Saunderson was as surprised as Bill ever could be to\nsee a lion facing him at something like six or seven yards.  The lion,\nwith head laid level and tail flicking ominously, half crouched for its\nspring.  Bill's bullet glanced along the skull, peeling off the skin.\n\"It was a bad shot,\" he said afterwards, in answer to the beginner's\nbreathless questions.  \"He wasn't hurt: just sank a little like a\npointer when you check him; but before he steadied up again I took for\nthe nose and got him.  You see,\" he added thoughtfully, \"a lion's got no\nforehead: it is all hair.\"\n\nThat was about all he had to say; but, little store as he may have set\non it, the tip was never forgotten and proved of much value to at least\none of our party years afterwards.  To this day the picture of a lion\nbrings up that scene--the crouching beast, faced by a man with a long\nbrown beard, solemn face, and clear unfaltering eyes; the swift yet\nquiet action of reloading; and the second shot an inch or so lower,\nbecause \"a lion's got no forehead: it's all hair.\"\n\nThe shooting of a lion, fair and square, and face to face, was the Blue\nRiband of the Bush, and no detail would have seemed superfluous; but\nBill, whose eye nothing could escape, had, like many great hunters, a\nlaggard tongue.  Only now and then a look of grave amusement lighted up\nhis face to show he recognised the hungry enthusiasm and his own\ninability to satisfy it.  The skin with the grazed stripe along the\nnose, and the broken skull, were handled and looked at many times, and\nthe story was pumped from every Kaffir--all voluble and eager, but none\neye-witnesses.  Bob, the sociable and more communicative, who had been\nnearest his brother, was asked a hundred questions, but all he had to\nsay was that the grass was too long for him to see what happened: he\nreckoned that it was \"a pretty near thing after the first shot; but\nBill's all right!\"\n\nTo me it was an absurd and tiresome affectation to show interest in any\nother topic, and when, during that evening, conversation strayed to\nother subjects, it seemed waste of time and priceless opportunity.  Bob\nresponded good-naturedly to many crude attempts to head them back to the\nentrancing theme, but the professional interest in rates, loads, rivers,\nroads, disease, drought, and `fly,' was strong in the older\ntransport-riders, as it should have been, but, for the time at least,\nwas not, in me.  If diplomacy failed, however, luck was not all out; for\nwhen all the pet subjects of the road had been thrashed out, and it was\nabout time to turn in, a stray question brought the reward of patience.\n\n\"Have you heard if Jim reached Durban all right?\"\n\n\"Yes!  Safely shipped.\"\n\n\"You got some one to take him right through?\"\n\n\"No!  A Dutchman took him to Lydenburg, and I got Tom Hardy, going back\nempty, to take him along from there.\"\n\n\"What about feeding?\"\n\n\"I sent some goats,\" said Bob, smiling for a moment at some passing\nthought, and then went on: \"Tom said he had an old span that wouldn't\nmind it.  We loaded him up at Parker's, and I cleared out before he got\nthe cattle up.  But they tell me there was a gay jamboree when it came\nto inspanning; and as soon as they got up to the other waggons and the\nyoung bullocks winded Jim, they started off with their tails up--a\nregular stampede, voorloopers and drivers yelling like mad, all the\nloose things shaking out of the waggons, and Tom nearly in a fit from\nrunning, shouting and swearing.\"\n\nJudging by the laughter, there was only one person present who did not\nunderstand the joke, and I had to ask--with some misgiving--who was this\nJim who needed so much care and feeding, and caused such a scare.\n\nThere was another burst of laughter as they guessed my thoughts, and it\nwas Bob who answered me: \"Only a lion, lad--not a wild man or a lunatic!\nOnly a young lion!  Sold him to the Zoo, and had to deliver him in\nDurban.\"\n\n\"Well, you fairly took me in with the name!\"\n\n\"Oh!  Jim?  Well that's his pet name.  His real name is Dabulamanzi.\nJim, my hunting boy, caught him, so we call him Jim out of compliment,\"\nhe added with a grin.  \"But Jim called him Dabulamanzi, also out of\ncompliment, and I think that was pretty good for a nigger.\"\n\n\"You see,\" said Bob, for the benefit of those who were not up in local\nhistory, \"Dabulamanzi, the big fighting General in the Zulu War, was\nJim's own chief and leader; and the name means `The one who conquers the\nwaters.'\"\n\nThen one of the others exclaimed: \"Oh!  Of course, that's how you got\nhim, isn't it: caught him in a river?  Tell us what did happen, Bob.\nWhat's the truth of it?  It seemed a bit steep as I heard it.\"\n\n\"Well, it's really simple enough.  We came right on to the lioness\nwaiting for us, and I got her; and then there were shouts from the boys,\nand I saw a couple of cubs, pretty well grown, making off in the grass.\nThis boy Jim legged it after one of them, a cub about as big as a\nNewfoundland dog--not so high, but longer.  I followed as fast as I\ncould, but he was a big Zulu and went like a buck, yelling like mad all\nthe time.  We were in the bend of one of the long pools down near the\nKomati, and when I got through the reeds the cub was at the water's edge\nfacing Jim, and Jim was dancing around heading it off with only one\nlight stick.  As soon as it saw us coming on, the cub took to the water,\nand Jim after it.  It was as good as a play.  Jim swam up behind, and\nputting his hand on its head ducked it right under: the cub turned as it\ncame up and struck out at him viciously, but he was back out of reach:\nwhen it turned again to go Jim ducked it again, and it went on like that\nsix or eight times, till the thing was half drowned and had no more\nfight in it.  Then Jim got hold of it by the tail and swam back to us,\nstill shouting and quite mad with excitement.\n\n\"Of course,\" added Bob with a wag of his head, \"you can say it was only\na cub; but it takes a good man to go up naked and tackle a thing like\nthat, with teeth and claws to cut you into ribbons.\"\n\n\"Was Jim here to-day?\"  I asked, as soon as there was an opening.  Bob\nshook his head with a kindly regretful smile.  \"No, Sonny, not here;\nyou'd 'a' heard him.  Jim's gone.  I had to sack him.  A real fine\nnigger, but a terror to drink, and always in trouble.  He fairly wore me\nright out.\"\n\nWe were generally a party of half a dozen--the owners of the four\nwaggons, a couple of friends trading with Delagoa, a man from Swaziland,\nand--just then--an old Yankee hunter-prospector.  It was our holiday\ntime, before the hard work with loads would commence, and we dawdled\nalong feeding up the cattle and taking it easy ourselves.\n\nIt was too early for loads in the Bay, so we moved slowly and hunted on\nthe way, sometimes camping for several days in places where grass and\nwater were good; and that lion skin was the cause of many\ndisappointments to me.  Never a bush or ant-heap, never a donga or a\npatch of reeds, did I pass for many days after that without the\nconviction that something was lurking there.  Game there was in plenty,\nno doubt, but it did not come my way.  Days went by with, once or twice,\nthe sight of some small buck just as it disappeared, and many times, the\nnoise of something in the bush or the sound of galloping feet.  Others\nbrought their contributions to the pot daily, and there seemed to be no\nreason in the world why I alone should fail--no reason except sheer bad\nluck!  It is difficult to believe you have made mistakes when you do not\nknow enough to recognise them, and have no extent your own ignorance;\nand then bad luck is such an easy and such a flattering explanation!  If\nI did not go so far on the easy road of excuse-making as to put all the\nfailures down to bad luck, perhaps some one else deserves the credit.\n\nOne evening as we were lounging round the camp fire, Robbie, failing to\nfind a soft spot for his head on a thorn log, got up reluctantly to\nfetch his blankets, exclaiming with a mock tragic air:\n\n\"The time is out of joint; O cursed spite, That ever I was born to set\nit right.\"\n\nWe knew Robbie's way.  There were times when he would spout heroics,\nsuggested by some passing trifle, his own face a marvel of solemnity the\nwhole time, and only the amused expression in his spectacled grey eyes\nto show he was poking fun at himself.  An indulgent smile, a chuckle,\nand the genial comment \"Silly ass!\" came from different quarters; for\nRobbie was a favourite.  Only old Rocky maintained his usual gravity.\n\nAs Robbie settled down again in comfort, the old man remarked in level\nthoughtful tones: \"I reckon the feller as said that was a waster, he\nchucked it!\"  There was a short pause in which I, in my ignorance, began\nto wonder if it was possible that Rocky did not know the source; or did\nhe take the quotation seriously?  Then Robbie answered in mild protest:\n\"It was a gentleman of the name of Hamlet who said it.\"\n\n\"Well, you can bet he was no good, anyhow,\" Rocky drawled out.  \"`Jus'\nmy luck!' is the waster's motto!\"\n\n\"They do say he was mad,\" Robbie replied, as his face twitched with a\npull-your-leg expression, \"but he got off a lot of first-class things\nall the same--some of the best things ever said.\"\n\n\"I da' say; they mostly can.  But a man as sets down and blames his luck\nis no good anyhow.  He's got no sand, and got no sense, and got no\nhonesty!  It ain't the time's wrong: it's the man!  It ain't the job's\ntoo big: it's the man's too little!\"\n\n\"You don't believe in luck at all, Rocky?\"  I ventured to put in.\n\n\"I don't say thar's no such thing as luck--good and bad; but it ain't\nthe explanation o' success an' failure--not by a long way.  No, sirree,\nluck's just the thing any man'd like ter believe is the reason for his\nfailure and another feller's success.  But it ain't so.  When another\nman pulls off what you don't, the first thing you got ter believe is\nit's your own fault; and the last, it's his luck.  And you jus' got ter\nwade in an' find out whar you went wrong, an' put it right, 'thout any\nexcuses an' explanations.\"\n\n\"But, Rocky, explanations aren't always excuses, and sometimes you\nreally have to give them!\"\n\n\"Sonny, you kin reckon it dead sure thar's something wrong 'bout a thing\nthat don't explain itself; an' one explanation's as bad as two\nmistakes--it don't fool anybody worth speaking of, 'cept yerself.  You\nfind the remedy; you can leave other folks put up the excuses.\"\n\nI was beaten.  It was no use going on, for I knew he was right.  I\nsuppose the other fellows also knew whom he was getting at, but they\nsaid nothing; and the subject seemed to have dropped, when Rocky,\nharking back to Robbie's quotation, said, with a ghost of a smile: \"I\nreckon ef that sharp o' your'n hed ter keep the camp in meat we'd go\npretty nigh hungry.\"\n\nBut it seemed a good deal to give up all at once--the bad luck, the\nexcuses and explanations, and the comfort they afforded; and I could not\nhelp thinking of that wretched wrong-headed stembuck that had actually\nallowed me to pass it, and then cantered away behind me.\n\nRocky, known, liked and respected by all, yet intimate with none, was\n`going North'--even to the Zambesi, it was whispered--but no one knew\nwhere or why.  He was going off alone, with two pack-donkeys and not\neven a boy for company, on a trip of many hundreds of miles and\nindefinite duration.  No doubt he had an idea to work out; perhaps a\nreport of some trader or hunter or even native was his pole-star: most\ncertainly he had a plan, but what it was no living soul would know.\nThat was the way of his kind.  With them there was no limit in time or\ndistance, no hint of purpose or direction, no home, no address, no\n`people'; perhaps a partner somewhere or a chum, as silent as\nthemselves, who would hear some day--if there was anything to tell.\n\nRocky had worked near our camp on the Berg.  I had known him to nod to,\nand when we met again at one of the early outspans in the Bush and\noffered a lift for him and his packs he accepted and joined us, it being\nstill a bit early to attempt crossing the rivers with pack-donkeys.  It\nmay be that the `lift' saved his donkeys something on the roughest roads\nand in the early stages; or it may be that we served as a useful screen\nfor his movements, making it difficult for any one else to follow his\nline and watch him.  Anyway, he joined us in the way of those days: that\nis, we travelled together and as a rule we grubbed together; yet each\ncooked for himself and used his own stores, and in principle we\nmaintained our separate establishments.  The bag alone was common; each\nman brought what game he got and threw it into the common stock.\n\nThe secret of agreement in the veld is--complete independence!  Points\nof contact are points of friction--nowhere more so; and the safest plan\nis, each man his own outfit and each free to feed or sleep or trek as\nand when he chooses.  I have known partners and friends who would from\ntime to time move a trek apart, or a day apart, and always camp apart\nwhen they rejoined; and so remain friends.\n\nRocky--in full, Rocky Mountain Jack--had another name, but it was known\nto few besides the Mining Commissioner's clerk who registered his\nlicences from time to time.  \"In the Rockies whar I was raised\" is about\nthe only remark having deliberate reference to his personal history\nwhich he was known to have made; but it was enough on which to found the\nname by which we knew him.\n\nWhat struck me first about him was the long Colt's revolver, carried on\nhis hip; and for two days this `gun,' as he called it, conjured up\nvisions of Poker Flat and Roaring Camp, Jack Hamlin and Yuba Bill of\ncherished memory; and then the inevitable question got itself asked:\n\n\"Did you ever shoot a man, Rocky?\"\n\n\"No, Sonny,\" he drawled gently, \"never hed ter use it yet!\"\n\n\"It looks very old.  Have you had it long?\"\n\n\"Jus' 'bout thirty years, I reckon!\"\n\n\"Oh!  Seems a long time to carry a thing without using it!\"\n\n\"Waal,\" he answered half absently, \"thet's so.  It's a thing you don't\nwant orfen--but when you do, you want it derned bad!\"\n\nRocky seemed to me to have stepped into our life out of the pages of\nBret Harte.  For me the glamour of romance was cast by the Master's\nspell over all that world, and no doubt helped to make old Rocky\nsomething of a hero in the eyes of youth; but such help was of small\naccount, for the cardinal fact was Rocky himself.  He was a man.\n\nThere did not seem to be any known region of the earth where prospectors\nroam that he had not sampled, and yet whilst gleaning something from\nevery land, his native flavour clung to him unchanged.  He was silent by\nhabit and impossible to draw; not helpful to those who looked for short\ncuts, yet kindly and patient with those who meant to try; he was not to\nbe exploited, and had an illuminating instinct for what was not genuine.\nHe had `no use for short weight'--and showed it!\n\nI used to watch him in the circle round the fire at nights, his face\ngrave, weather-stained and wrinkled, with clear grey eyes and long brown\nbeard, slightly grizzled then--watch and wonder why Rocky, experienced,\nwise and steadfast, should--at sixty--be seeking still.  Were the prizes\nso few in the prospector's life? or was there something wanting in him\ntoo?  Why had he not achieved success?\n\nIt was not so clear then that ideals differ.  Rocky's ideal was the\nlife--not the escape from it.  There was something--sentiment,\nimagination, poetry, call it what you will--that could make common\nsuccess seem to him common indeed and cheap!  To follow in a new rush,\nto reap where another had sown, had no charm for him.  It may be that an\ninborn pride disliked it; but it seems more likely that it simply did\nnot attract him.  And if--as in the end I thought--Rocky had taken the\nworld as it is and backed himself against it--living up to his ideal,\nplaying a `lone hand' and playing it fair in all conditions, treading\nthe unbeaten tracks, finding his triumph in his work, always moving on\nand contented so to end: the crown, \"He was a man!\"--then surely Rocky's\nhad achieved success!\n\nThat is Rocky, as remembered now!  A bit idealised?  Perhaps so: but who\ncan say!  In truth he had his sides and the defects of his qualities,\nlike every one else; and it was not every one who made a hero of him.\nMany left him respectfully alone; and something of their feeling came to\nme the first time I was with him, when a stupid chatterer talked and\nasked too much.  He was not surly or taciturn, but I felt frozen through\nby a calm deadly unresponsiveness which anything with blood and brain\nshould have shrunk under.  The dull monotone, the ominous drawl, the\nsteady something in his clear calm eyes which I cannot define, gave an\nalmost corrosive effect to innocent words and a voice of lazy\ngentleness.\n\n\"What's the best thing to do following up a wounded buffalo?\" was the\nquestion.  The questions sprung briskly, as only a `yapper' puts them;\nand the answers came like reluctant drops from a filter.  \"Git out!\"\n\n\"Yes, but if there isn't time?\"\n\n\"Say yer prayers!\"\n\n\"No--seriously--what is the best way of tackling one?\"\n\n\"Ef yer wawnt to know, thar's only one way: Keep cool and shoot\nstraight!\"\n\n\"Oh! of course--_if you can_?\"\n\n\"An' ef you can't,\" he added in fool-killer tones, \"best stay right\nhome!\"\n\nRocky had no fancy notions: he hunted for meat and got it as soon as\npossible; he was seldom out long, and rarely indeed came back\nempty-handed.  I had already learnt not to be too ready with questions.\nIt was better, so Rocky put it, \"to keep yer eyes open and yer mouth\nshut\"; but the results at first hardly seemed to justify the process.\nAt the end of a week of failures and disappointments all I knew was that\nI knew nothing--a very notable advance it is true, but one quite\ndifficult to appreciate!  Thus it came to me in the light of a\ndistinction when one evening, after a rueful confession of blundering\nmade to the party in general, Rocky passed a brief but not unfriendly\nglance over me and said, \"On'y the born fools stays fools.  You'll git\nter learn bymbye; you ain't always yappin'!\"\n\nIt was not an extravagant compliment; but failure and helplessness act\non conceit like water on a starched collar: mine was limp by that time,\nand I was grateful for little things--most grateful when next morning,\nas we were discussing our several ways, he turned to me and asked\ngently, \"Comin' along, Boy?\"\n\nSurprise and gratitude must have produced a touch of effusiveness which\njarred on him; for, to the eager exclamation and thanks, he made no\nanswer--just moved on, leaving me to follow.  In his scheme of life\nthere was `no call to slop over.'\n\nThere was a quiet unhesitating sureness and a definiteness of purpose\nabout old Rocky's movements which immediately inspired confidence.  We\nhad not been gone many minutes before I began to have visions of\nexciting chases and glorious endings, and as we walked silently along\nthey took possession of me so completely that I failed to notice the\ndifference between his methods and mine.  Presently, brimful of\nexcitement and hope, I asked cheerily what he thought we would get.  The\nold man stopped and with a gentle graveness of look and a voice from\nwhich all trace of tartness or sarcasm was banished, said, \"See, Sonny!\nIf you been useter goin' round like a dawg with a tin it ain't any\nwonder you seen nothin'.  You got ter walk soft an' keep yer head shut!\"\n\nIn reply to my apology he said that there was \"no bell an' curtain in\nthis yere play; you got ter be thar waitin'.\"\n\nRocky knew better than I did the extent of his good nature; he knew that\nin all probability it meant a wasted day; for, with the best will in the\nworld, the beginner is almost certain to spoil sport.  It looks so\nsimple and easy when you have only read about it or heard others talk;\nbut there are pitfalls at every step.  When, in what seemed to me\nperfectly still air, Rocky took a pinch of dust and let it drop, and\nafterwards wet one finger and held it up to feel which side cooled, it\nwas not difficult to know that he was trying the wind; but when he\nchanged direction suddenly for no apparent reason, or when he stopped\nand, after a glance at the ground, slackened his frame, lost all\ninterest in sport, wind and surroundings, and addressed a remark to me\nin ordinary tones, I was hopelessly at sea.  His manner showed that some\npossibility was disposed of and some idea abandoned.  Once he said\n\"Rietbuck!  Heard us I reckon,\" and then turned off at a right-angle;\nbut a little later on he pointed to other spoor and, indifferently\ndropping the one word `Koodoo,' continued straight on.  To me the two\nspoors seemed equally fresh; he saw hours'--perhaps a whole day's--\ndifference between them.  That the rietbuck, scared by us, had gone\nahead and was keenly on the watch for us and therefore not worth\nfollowing, and that the koodoo was on the move and had simply struck\nacross our line and was therefore not to be overtaken, were conclusions\nhe drew without hesitation.  I only saw spoor and began to palpitate\nwith thoughts of bagging a koodoo bull.\n\nWe had been out perhaps an hour, and by unceasing watchfulness I had\nlearnt many things: they were about as well learnt and as useful as a\nsentence in a foreign tongue got off by heart; but to me they seemed the\nessentials and the fundamentals of hunting.  I was feeling very pleased\nwith myself and confident of the result; the stumbling over stones and\nstumps had ceased; and there was no more catching in thorns, crunching\non bare gritty places, clinking on rocks, or crackling of dry twigs; and\nas we moved on in silence the visions of koodoo and other big game\nbecame very real.  There was nothing to hinder them: to do as Rocky did\nhad become mechanically easy; a glance in his direction every now and\nthen was enough; there was time and temptation to look about and still\nperhaps to be the first to spot the game.\n\nIt was after taking one such casual glance around that I suddenly missed\nRocky: a moment later I saw him moving forward, fast but silently, under\ncover of an ant-heap--stooping low and signing to me with one hand\nbehind his back.  With a horrible feeling of having failed him I made a\nhurried step sideways to get into line behind him and the ant-heap, and\nI stepped right on to a pile of dry crackly sticks.  Rocky stood up\nquietly and waited, while I wished the earth would open and swallow me.\nWhen I got up abreast he half turned and looked me over with eyes\nslightly narrowed and a faint but ominous smile on one side of his\nmouth, and drawled out gently:\n\n\"You'd oughter brought some fire crackers!\"  If only he had sworn at me\nit would have been endurable.\n\nWe moved on again and this time I had eyes for nothing but Rocky's back,\nand where to put my foot next.  It was not very long before he checked\nin mid-stride and I stood rigid as a pointer.  Peering intently over his\nshoulder in the direction in which he looked I could see nothing.  The\nbush was very open, and yet, even with his raised rifle to guide me, I\ncould not for the life of me see what he was aiming at.  Then the shot\nrang out, and a duiker toppled over kicking in the grass not a hundred\nyards away.\n\nThe remembrance of certain things still makes me feel uncomfortable; the\nyell of delight I let out as the buck fell; the wild dash forward, which\ndied away to a dead stop as I realised that Rocky himself had not moved;\nthe sight of him, as I looked back, calmly reloading; and the silence.\nTo me it was an event: to him, his work.  But these things were\nforgotten then--lost behind the everlasting puzzle, How was it possible\nI had not seen the buck until it fell?  Rocky must have known what was\nworrying me, for, after we had picked up the buck, he remarked without\nany preliminary, \"It ain't easy in this bush ter pick up what don't\nmove; an' it ain't hardly possible ter find what ye don't know!\"\n\n\"Game you mean?\"  I asked, somewhat puzzled.\n\n\"This one was feeding,\" he answered, after a nod in reply.  \"I saw his\nhead go up ter listen; but when they don't move, an' you don't jus' know\nwhat they look like, you kin 'most walk atop o' them.  You got ter kind\no' shape 'em in yer eye, an' when you got that fixed you kin pick 'em up\n'most anywhere!\"\n\nIt cost Rocky an effort to volunteer anything.  There were others always\nready to talk and advise; but they were no help.  It was Rocky himself\nwho once said that \"the man who's allus offerin' his advice fer nothin'\n's askin' 'bout's much's it's worth.\"  He seemed to run dry of words--\nlike an overdrawn well.  For several days he took no further notice of\nme, apparently having forgotten my existence or repented his good\nnature.  Once, when in reply to a question, I was owning up to the hopes\nand chances and failures of the day, I caught his attentive look turned\non me and was conscious of it--and a little apprehensive--for the rest\nof the evening; but nothing happened.\n\nThe following evening however it came out.  I had felt that that look\nmeant something, and that sooner or later I would catch it.  It was\ncharacteristic of him that he could always wait, and I never felt quite\nsafe with him--never comfortably sure that something was not being saved\nup for me for some mistake perhaps days old.  He was not to be hurried,\nnor was he to be put off, and nobody ever interrupted him or headed him\noff.  His quiet voice was never raised, and the lazy gentleness never\ndisturbed; he seemed to know exactly what he wanted to say, and to have\nopening and attention waiting for him.  I suppose it was partly because\nhe spoke so seldom: but there was something else too--the something that\nwas just Rocky himself.  Although the talk appeared the result of\naccident, an instinct told me from the start that it was not really so:\nit was Rocky's slow and considered way.\n\nThe only dog with us was licking a cut on her shoulder--the result of an\nunauthorised rush at a wounded buck--and after an examination of her\nwound we had wandered over the account of how she had got it, and so on\nto discussing the dog herself.  Rocky sat in silence, smoking and\nlooking into the fire, and the little discussion was closed by some one\nsaying, \"She's no good for a hunting dog--too plucky!\"  It was then I\nsaw Rocky's eyes turned slowly on the last speaker: he looked at him\nthoughtfully for a good minute, and then remarked quietly:\n\n\"Thar ain't no sich thing as too plucky!\"  And with that he stopped,\nalmost as if inviting contradiction.  Whether he wanted a reply or not\none cannot say; anyway, he got none.  No one took Rocky on\nunnecessarily; and at his leisure he resumed:\n\n\"Thar's brave men; an' thar's fools; an' you kin get some that's both.\nBut thar's a whole heap that ain't!  An' it's jus' the same with dawgs.\nShe's no fool, but she ain't been taught: that's what's the matter with\nher.  Men ha' got ter larn: dawgs too!  Men ain't born equal: no more's\ndawgs!  One's born better 'n another--more brains, more heart; but I\nain't yet heard o' the man born with knowledge or experience; that's\nwhat they got ter learn--men an' dawgs!  The born fool's got to do\nfool's work all the time: but the others larn; and the brave man with\nbrains 's got a big pull.  He don't get shook up--jus' keeps on thinkin'\nout his job right along, while the other feller's worryin' about his\nhide!  An' dawgs is the same.\"\n\nRocky's eyes--for ever grave and thoughtful--rested on the fire; and the\nremarks that came from the other men passed unnoticed, but they served\nto keep the subject alive.  Presently he went on again--opening with an\nobservation that caused me to move uneasily before there was time to\nthink why!\n\n\"Boys is like pups--you got ter help 'em some; but not too much, an' not\ntoo soon.  They got ter larn themselves.  I reckon ef a man's never made\na mistake he's never had a good lesson.  Ef you don't pay for a thing\nyou don't know what it's worth; and mistakes is part o' the price o'\nknowledge--the other part is work!  But mistakes is the part you don't\nlike payin': thet's why you remember it.  You save a boy from makin'\nmistakes and ef he's got good stuff in him, most like you spoil it.  He\ndon't know anything properly, 'cause he don't think; and he don't think,\n'cause you saved him the trouble an' he never learned how!  He don't\nknow the meanin' o' consequences and risks, 'cause you kep' 'em off him!\nAn' bymbye he gets ter believe it's born in him ter go right, an' knows\neverything, an' can't go wrong; an' ef things don't pan out in the end\nhe reckon it's jus' bad luck!  No!  Sirree!  Ef he's got ter swim you\nlet him know right there that the water's deep an' thar ain't no one to\nhol' him up, an' ef he don't wade in an' larn, it's goin' ter be his\nfuneral!\"\n\nMy eyes were all for Rocky, but he was not looking my way, and when the\nnext remark came, and my heart jumped and my hands and feet moved of\ntheir own accord, his face was turned quite away from me towards the man\non his left.\n\n\"An' it's jus' the same 'ith huntin'!  It looks so blamed easy he\nreckons it don't need any teachin'.  Well, let him try!  Leave him run\non his own till his boots is walked off an' he's like to set down and\ncry, ef he wasn't 'shamed to; let him know every pur-tickler sort o'\nblamed fool he can make of himself; an' then he's fit ter teach, 'cause\nhe'll listen, an' watch, an' learn--at? say thank ye fer it!  Mostly you\ngot ter make a fool o' yourself once or twice ter know what it feels\nlike an' how t' avoid it: best do it young--it teaches a boy; but it\nkind o' breaks a man up!\"\n\nI kept my eyes on Rocky, avoiding the others, fearing that a look or\nword might tempt some one to rub it in; and it was a relief when the old\nman naturally and easily picked up his original point and, turning\nanother look on Jess, said:\n\n\"You got ter begin on the pup.  It ain't her fault; it's yours.  She's\nfull up o' the right stuff, but she got no show to larn!  Dawgs is all\ndifferent, good an' bad--just like men: some larns quick; some'll never\nlarn.  But thar ain't any too plucky!\"\n\nHe tossed a chip of green wood into the heart of the fire and watched it\nspurtle and smoke, and after quite a long pause, added:\n\n\"Thar's times when a dawg's got to see it through an' be killed.  It's\nhis dooty--same as a man's.  I seen it done!\"\n\nThe last words were added with a narrowing of his eyes and a curious\nsoftening of voice--as of personal affection or regret.  Others noticed\nit too; and in reply to a question as to how it had happened Rocky\nexplained in a few words that a wounded buffalo had waylaid and tossed\nthe man over its back, and as it turned again to gore him the dog rushed\nin between, fighting it off for a time and eventually fastening on to\nthe nose when the buffalo still pushed on.  The check enabled the man to\nreach his gun and shoot the buffalo; but the dog was trampled to death.\n\n\"Were you...?\" some one began--and then at the look in Rocky's face,\nhesitated.  Rocky, staring into the fire, answered:\n\n\"It was my dawg!\"\n\n------------------------------------------------------------------------\n\nLong after the other men were asleep I lay in my blankets watching the\ntricks of light and shadow played by the fire, as fitfully it flamed or\ndied away.  It showed the long prostrate figures of the others as they\nslept full stretch on their backs, wrapped in dark blankets; the\nwaggons, touched with unwonted colours by the flames, and softened to\nghostly shadows when they died; the oxen, sleeping contentedly at their\nyokes; Rocky's two donkeys, black and grey, tethered under a\nthorn-tree--now and then a long ear moving slowly to some distant sound\nand dropping back again satisfied.  I could not sleep; but Rocky was\nsleeping like a babe.  He, gaunt and spare--6 foot 2 he must have\nstood--weather-beaten and old, with the long solitary trip before him\nand sixty odd years of life behind, he slept when he laid his head down,\nand was wide awake and rested when he raised it.  He, who had been\nthrough it all, slept; but I, who had only listened, was haunted,\nbewitched, possessed, by racing thoughts; and all on account of four\nwords, and the way he said them, \"It was my dawg.\"\n\nIt was still dark, with a faint promise of saffron in the East, when I\nfelt a hand on my shoulder and heard Rocky's voice saying, \"Comin'\nalong, Sonny?\"\n\nOne of the drivers raised his head to look at us as we passed, and then\ncalled to his voorlooper to turn the cattle loose to graze, and dropped\nback to sleep.  We left them so and sallied out into the pure clear\nmorning while all the world was still, while the air, cold and subtly\nstimulating, put a spring into the step and an extra beat or two into\nthe pulse, fairly rinsing lungs and eyes and brain.\n\nWhat is there to tell of that day?  Why! nothing, really nothing, except\nthat it was a happy day--a day of little things that all went well, and\nso it came to look like the birthday of the hunting.  What did it matter\nto me that we were soaked through in ten minutes? for the dew weighed\ndown the heavy-topped grass with clusters of crystal drops that looked\nlike diamond sprays.  It was all too beautiful for words: and so it\nshould be in the spring-time of youth.\n\nRocky was different that day.  He showed me things; reading the open\nbook of nature that I could not understand.  He pointed out the spoors\ngoing to and from the drinking-place, and named the various animals;\nshowed me one more deeply indented than the rest and, murmuring \"Scared\nI guess,\" pointed to where it had dashed off out of the regular track;\npicked out the big splayed pad of the hyena sneaking round under cover;\nstopped quietly in his stride to point where a hare was sitting up\ncleaning itself, not ten yards off; stopped again at the sound of a\nclear, almost metallic, `clink' and pointed to a little sandy gully in\nfront of us down which presently came thirty or forty guinea-fowl in\nsingle file, moving swiftly, running and walking, and all in absolute\nsilence except for that one `clink.'  How did he know they were there,\nand which way they would go, and know it all so promptly? were questions\nI asked myself.\n\nWe walked with the sun--that is towards the West--so that the light\nwould show up the game and be in their eyes, making it more difficult\nfor them to see us.  We watched a little red stembuck get up from his\nform, shake the dew from his coat, stretch himself, and then pick his\nway daintily through the wet grass, nibbling here and there as he went.\nRocky did not fire; he wanted something better.\n\nAfter the sun had risen, flooding the whole country with golden light,\nand, while the dew lasted, making it glisten like a bespangled\ntransformation scene, we came on a patch of old long grass and, parted\nby some twenty yards, walked through it abreast.  There was a wild rush\nfrom under my feet, a yellowish body dashed through the grass, and I got\nout in time to see a rietbuck ram cantering away.  Then Rocky, beside\nme, gave a shrill whistle; the buck stopped, side on, looked back at us,\nand Rocky dropped it where it stood.  Instantly following the shot there\nwas another rush on our left, and before the second rietbuck had gone\nthirty yards Rocky toppled it over in its tracks.  From the whistle to\nthe second shot it was all done in about ten seconds.  To me it looked\nlike magic.  I could only gasp.\n\nWe cleaned the bucks, and hid them in a bush.  There was meat enough for\nthe camp then, and I thought we would return at once for boys to carry\nit; but Rocky, after a moment's glance round, shouldered his rifle and\nmoved on again.  I followed, asking no questions.  We had been gone only\na few minutes when to my great astonishment he stopped and pointing\nstraight in front asked:\n\n\"What 'ud you put up for that stump?\"  I looked hard, and answered\nconfidently, \"Two hundred!\"\n\n\"Step it!\" was his reply.  I paced the distance; it was eighty-two\nyards.\n\nIt was very bewildering; but he helped me out a bit with \"Bush\ntelescopes, Sonny!\"\n\n\"You mean it magnifies them?\"  I asked in surprise.  \"No!  Magnifies the\ndistance, like lookin' down an avenue!  Gun barr'l looks a mile long\nwhen you put yer eye to it!  Open flats brings 'em closer; and 'cross\nwater or a gully seems like you kin put yer hand on 'em?\"\n\n\"I would have missed--by feet--that time Rocky!\"\n\n\"You kin take it fer a start, Halve the distance and aim low!\"\n\n\"Aim low, as well?\"\n\n\"Thar's allus somethin' low: legs, an' ground to show what you done!\nBut thar's no `outers' marked on the sky!\"\n\nOnce, as we walked along, he paused to look at some freshly overturned\nground, and dropped the one word, `Pig.'  We turned then to the right\nand presently came upon some vlei ground densely covered with tall green\nreeds.  He slowed down as we approached; I tip-toed in sympathy; and\nwhen only a few yards off he stopped and beckoned me on, and as I came\nabreast he raised his hand in warning and pointed into the reeds.  There\nwas a curious subdued sort of murmur of many deep voices.  It conveys no\nidea of the fact to say they were grunts.  They were softened out of all\nrecognition: there is only one word for it, they sounded `confidential.'\nThen as we listened I could make out the soft silky rustling of the\nrich undergrowth, and presently, could follow, by the quivering and\nwaving of odd reeds, the movements of the animals themselves.  They were\nonly a few yards from us--the nearest four or five; they were busy and\ncontented; and it was obvious they were utterly unconscious of our\npresence.  As we peered down to the reeds from our greater height it\nseemed that we could see the ground and that not so much as a rat could\nhave passed unnoticed.  Yet we saw nothing!\n\nAnd then, without the slightest sign, cause or warning that I could\ndetect, in one instant every sound ceased.  I watched the reeds like a\ncat on the pounce: never a stir or sign or sound: they had vanished.  I\nturned to Rocky: he was standing at ease, and there was the faintest\nlook of amusement in his eyes.\n\n\"They must be there; they can't have got away?\"  It was a sort of\nindignant protest against his evident `chucking it'; but it was full of\ndoubt all the same.\n\n\"Try!\" he said, and I jumped into the reeds straight away.  The\nunder-foliage, it is true, was thicker and deeper than it had looked;\nbut for all that it was like a conjuring trick--they were not there!  I\nwaded through a hundred yards or more of the narrow belt--it was not\nmore than twenty yards wide anywhere--but the place was deserted.  It\nstruck me then that if they could dodge us at five to ten yards while we\nwere watching from the bank and they did not know it--Well, I `chucked\nit' too.  Rocky was standing in the same place with the same faint look\nof friendly amusement when I got back, wet and muddy.\n\n\"Pigs is like that,\" he said, \"same as elephants--jus' disappears!\"\n\nWe went on again, and a quarter of an hour later, it may be, Rocky\nstopped, subsided to a sitting position, beckoned to me, and pointed\nwith his levelled rifle in front.  It was a couple of minutes before he\ncould get me to see the stembuck standing in the shade of a thorn-tree.\nI would never have seen it but for his whisper to look for something\nmoving: that gave it to me; I saw the movement of the head as it\ncropped.\n\n\"High: right!\" was Rocky's comment, as the bullet ripped the bark off a\ntree and the startled stembuck raced away.  In the excitement I had\nforgotten his advice already!\n\nBut there was no time to feel sick and disgusted; the buck, puzzled by\nthe report on one side and the smash on the tree on the other, half\ncircled us and stopped to look back.  Rocky laid his hand on my\nshoulder:\n\n\"Take your time, Sonny!\" he said, \"Aim low; an' _don't full!  Squeeze_!\"\nAnd at last I got it.\n\nWe had our breakfast there--the liver roasted on the coals, and a couple\nof `dough-boys,' with the unexpected addition of a bottle of cold tea,\nweak and unsweetened, produced from Rocky's knapsack!  We stayed there a\ncouple of hours, and that is the only time he really opened out.  I\nunderstood then--at last--that of his deliberate kindliness he had come\nout that morning meaning to make a happy day of it for a youngster; and\nhe did it.\n\nHe had the knack of getting at the heart of things, and putting it all\nin the fewest words.  He spoke in the same slow grave way, with habitual\neconomy of breath and words; and yet the pictures were living and real,\nand each incident complete.  I seemed to get from him that morning all\nthere was to know of the hunting in two great continents--Grizzlies and\nother `bar,' Moose and Wapiti, hunted in the snows of the North West;\nElephant, Buffalo, Rhino, Lions, and scores more, in the sweltering heat\nof Africa!\n\nThat was a happy day!\n\nWhen I woke up next morning Rocky was fitting the packs on his donkeys.\nI was a little puzzled, wondering at first if he was testing the\nsaddles, for he had said nothing about moving on; but when he joined us\nat breakfast the donkeys stood packed ready to start.  Then Robbie\nasked:\n\n\"Going to make a move, Rocky?\"\n\n\"Yes!  Reckon I'll git!\" he answered quietly.\n\nI ate in silence, thinking of what he was to face: many hundreds of\nmiles--perhaps a thousand or two; many, many months--may be a year or\ntwo; wild country, wild tribes, and wild beasts; floods and fever;\naccident, hunger, and disease; and alone!\n\nWhen we had finished breakfast he rinsed out his beaker and hung it on\none of the packs, slung his rifle over his shoulder, and picking up his\nlong assegai-wood walking-stick tapped the donkeys lightly to turn them\ninto the Kaffir footpath that led away North.  They jogged on into place\nin single file.\n\nRocky paused a second before following, turned one brief grave glance on\nus, and said!\n\n\"Well.  So long!\"\n\nHe never came back!\n\n\nCHAPTER THREE.\n\nJESS.\n\nGood dogs were not easy to get; I had tried hard enough for one before\nstarting, but without success.  Even unborn puppies had jealous\nprospective owners waiting to claim them.\n\nThere is always plenty of room at the top of the tree, and good hunting\ndogs were as rare as good men, good horses, and good front oxen.  A lot\nof qualities are needed in the make-up of a good hunting dog: size,\nstrength, quickness, scent, sense and speed--and plenty of courage.\nThey are very very difficult to get; but even small dogs are useful, and\nmany a fine feat stands to the credit of little terriers in guarding\ncamps at night and in standing off wounded animals that meant mischief.\n\nDennison was saved from a wounded lioness by his two fox-terriers.  He\nhad gone out to shoot bush-pheasants, and came unexpectedly on a lioness\nplaying with her cubs: the cubs hid in the grass, but she stood up at\nbay to protect them, and he, forgetting that he had taken the big\n`looper' cartridges from his gun and reloaded with Number 6, fired.  The\nshot only maddened her, and she charged; but the two dogs dashed at her,\none at each side, barking, snapping and yelling, rushing in and jumping\nback so fast and furiously that they flustered her.  Leaving the man for\nthe moment, she turned on them, dabbing viciously with her huge paws,\nfirst at one, then at the other; quick as lightning she struck right and\nleft as a kitten will at a twirled string; but they kept out of reach.\nIt only lasted seconds, but that was long enough for the man to reload\nand shoot the lioness through the heart.\n\nThere was only the one dog in our camp; and she was not an attractive\none.  She was a bull-terrier with a dull brindled coat--black and grey\nin shadowy stripes.  She had small cross-looking eyes and uncertain\nalways-moving ears; she was bad tempered and most unsociable; but she\nwas as faithful and as brave a dog as ever lived.  She never barked;\nnever howled when beaten for biting strangers or kaffirs or going for\nthe cattle; she was very silent, very savage, and very quick.  She\nbelonged to my friend Ted, and never left his side day or night.  Her\nname was Jess.\n\nJess was not a favourite, but everybody respected her, partly because\nyou knew she would not stand any nonsense--no pushing, patting or\npunishment, and very little talking to--and partly because she was so\nfaithful and plucky.  She was not a hunting dog, but on several\noccasions had helped to pull down wounded game; she had no knowledge or\nskill, and was only fierce and brave, and there was always the risk that\nshe would be killed.  She would listen to Ted, but to no one else; one\nof us might have shouted his lungs out, but it would not have stopped\nher from giving chase the moment she saw anything and keeping on till\nshe was too dead beat to move any further.\n\nThe first time I saw Jess we were having dinner, and I gave her a bone--\nputting it down close to her and saying, \"Here! good dog!\"  As she did\nnot even look at it, I moved it right under her nose.  She gave a low\ngrowl, and her little eyes turned on me for just one look as she got up\nand walked away.\n\nThere was a snigger of laughter from some of the others, but nobody said\nanything, and it seemed wiser to ask no questions just then.\nAfterwards, when we were alone, one of them told me Ted had trained her\nnot to feed from any one else, adding, \"You must not feed another man's\ndog; a dog has only one master!\"\n\nWe respected Jess greatly; but no one knew quite how much we respected\nher until the memorable day near Ship Mountain.\n\nWe had rested through the heat of the day under a big tree on the bank\nof a little stream; it was the tree under which Soltke prayed and died.\nAbout sundown, just before we were ready to start, some other waggons\npassed, and Ted, knowing the owner, went on with him intending to rejoin\nus at the next outspan.  As he jumped on to the passing waggon he called\nto Jess, and she ran out of a patch of soft grass under one of the big\ntrees behind our waggons.  She answered his call instantly, but when she\nsaw him moving off on the other waggon she sat down in the road and\nwatched him anxiously for some seconds, then ran on a few steps in her\ncurious quick silent way and again stopped, giving swift glances\nalternately towards Ted and towards us.  Ted remarked laughingly that\nshe evidently thought he had made a mistake by getting on to the wrong\nwaggon, and that she would follow presently.\n\nAfter he had disappeared she ran back to her patch of grass and lay\ndown, but in a few minutes she was back again squatting in the road\nlooking with that same anxious worried expression after her master.\nThus she went to and fro for the quarter of an hour it took us to\ninspan, and each time she passed we could hear a faint anxious little\nwhine.\n\nThe oxen were inspanned and the last odd things were being put up when\none of the boys came to say that he could not get the guns and\nwater-barrel because Jess would not let him near them.  There was\nsomething the matter with the dog, he said; he thought she was mad.\n\nKnowing how Jess hated kaffirs we laughed at the notion, and went for\nthe things ourselves.  As we came within five yards of the tree where we\nhad left the guns there was a rustle in the grass, and Jess came out\nwith her swift silent run, appearing as unexpectedly as a snake does,\nand with some odd suggestion of a snake in her look and attitude.  Her\nhead, body and tail were in a dead line, and she was crouching slightly\nas for a spring; her ears were laid flat back, her lips twitching\nconstantly, showing the strong white teeth, and her cross wicked eyes\nhad such a look of remorseless cruelty in them that we stopped as if we\nhad been turned to stone.  She never moved a muscle or made a sound, but\nkept those eyes steadily fixed on us.  We moved back a pace or two and\nbegan to coax and wheedle her; but it was no good; she never moved or\nmade a sound, and the unblinking look remained.  For a minute we stood\nour ground, and then the hair on her back and shoulders began very\nslowly to stand up.  That was enough: we cleared off.  It was a mighty\nuncanny appearance.\n\nThen another tried his hand; but it was just the same.  No one could do\nanything with her; no one could get near the guns or the water-barrel;\nas soon as we returned for a fresh attempt she reappeared in the same\nplace and in the same way.\n\nThe position was too ridiculous, and we were at our wits' end; for Jess\nheld the camp.  The kaffirs declared the dog was mad, and we began to\nhave very uncomfortable suspicions that they were right; but we decided\nto make a last attempt, and surrounding the place approached from all\nsides.  But the suddenness with which she appeared before we got into\nposition so demoralised the kaffirs that they bolted, and we gave it up,\nowning ourselves beaten.  We turned to watch her as she ran back for the\nlast time, and as she disappeared in the grass we heard distinctly the\ncry of a very young puppy.  Then the secret of Jess's madness was out.\n\nWe had to send for Ted, and when he returned a couple of hours later\nJess met him out on the road in the dark where she had been watching\nhalf the time ever since he left.  She jumped up at his chest giving a\nlong tremulous whimper of welcome, and then ran ahead straight to the\nnest in the grass.\n\nHe took a lantern and we followed, but not too close.  When he knelt\ndown to look at the puppies she stood over them and pushed herself in\nbetween him and them; when he put out a hand to touch them she pushed it\naway with her nose, whining softly in protest and trembling with\nexcitement--you could see she would not bite, but she hated him to touch\nher puppies.  Finally, when he picked one up she gave a low cry and\ncaught his wrist gently, but held it.\n\nThat was Jess, the mother of Jock!\n\n\nCHAPTER FOUR.\n\nTHE PICK OF THE PUPPIES.\n\nThere were six puppies, and as the waggons were empty we fixed up a\nroomy nest in one of them for Jess and her family.  There was no trouble\nwith Jess; nobody interfered with her, and she interfered with nobody.\nThe boys kept clear of her; but we used to take a look at her and the\npuppies as we walked along with the waggons; so by degrees she got to\nknow that we would not harm them, and she no longer wanted to eat us\nalive if we went near and talked to her.\n\nFive of the puppies were fat strong yellow little chaps with dark\nmuzzles--just like their father, as Ted said; and their father was an\nimported dog, and was always spoken of as the best dog of the breed that\nhad ever been in the country.  I never saw him, so I do not really know\nwhat he was like--perhaps he was not a yellow dog at all; but, whatever\nhe was, he had at that time a great reputation because he was\n`imported,' and there were not half a dozen imported dogs in the whole\nof the Transvaal then.  Many people used to ask what breed the puppies\nwere--I suppose it was because poor cross faithful old Jess was not much\nto look at, and because no one had a very high opinion of yellow dogs in\ngeneral, and nobody seemed to remember any famous yellow bull-terriers.\nThey used to smile in a queer way when they asked the question, as if\nthey were going to get off a joke; but when we answered \"Just like their\nfather--Buchanan's _imported_ dog,\" the smile disappeared, and they\nwould give a whistle of surprise and say \"By Jove!\" and immediately\nbegin to examine the five yellow puppies, remark upon their ears and\nnoses and legs, and praise them up until we were all as proud as if they\nhad belonged to us.\n\nJess looked after her puppies and knew nothing about the remarks that\nwere made, so they did not worry her, but I often looked at the faithful\nold thing with her dark brindled face, cross-looking eyes and\nalways-moving ears, and thought it jolly hard lines that nobody had a\ngood word for her; it seemed rough on her that every one should be glad\nthere was only one puppy at all like the mother--the sixth one, a poor\nmiserable little rat of a thing about half the size of the others.  He\nwas not yellow like them, nor dark brindled like Jess, but a sort of\ndirty pale half-and-half colour with some dark faint wavy lines all over\nhim, as if he had tried to be brindled and failed; and he had a dark\nsharp wizened little muzzle that looked shrivelled up with age.\n\nMost of the fellows said it would be a good thing to drown the odd one\nbecause he spoilt the litter and made them look as though they were not\nreally thoroughbred, and because he was such a miserable little rat that\nhe was not worth saving anyhow; but in the end he was allowed to live.\nI believe no one fancied the job of taking one of Jess's puppies away\nfrom her; moreover, as any dog was better than none, I had offered to\ntake him rather than let him be drowned.  Ted had old friends to whom he\nhad already promised the pick of the puppies, so when I came along it\nwas too late, and all he could promise me was that if there should be\none over I might have it.\n\nAs they grew older and were able to crawl about they were taken off the\nwaggons when we outspanned and put on the ground.  Jess got to\nunderstand this at once, and she used to watch us quite quietly as we\ntook them in our hands to put them down or lift them back again.  When\nthey were two or three weeks old a man came to the waggons who talked a\ngreat deal about dogs, and appeared to know what had to be done.  He\nsaid that the puppies' tails ought to be docked, and that a bull-terrier\nwould be no class at all with a long tail, but you should on no account\nclip his ears.  I thought he was speaking of fox-terriers, and that with\nbull-terriers the position was the other way round, at that time; but as\nhe said it was `the thing' in England, and nobody contradicted him, I\nshut up.  We found out afterwards that he had made a mistake; but it was\ntoo late then, and Jess's puppies started life as bull-terriers up to\ndate, with long ears and short tails.\n\nI felt sure from the beginning that all the yellow puppies would be\nclaimed and that I should have to take the odd one, or none at all; so I\nbegan to look upon him as mine already, and to take an interest in him\nand look after him.  A long time ago somebody wrote that \"the sense of\npossession turns sand into gold,\" and it is one of the truest things\never said.  Until it seemed that this queer-looking odd puppy was going\nto be mine I used to think and say very much what the others did--but\nwith this difference, that I always felt sorry for him, and sorry for\nJess too, because he was like her and not like the father.  I used to\nthink that perhaps if he were given a chance he might grow up like poor\nold Jess herself, ugly, cross and unpopular, but brave and faithful.  I\nfelt sorry for him, too, because he was small and weak, and the other\nfive big puppies used to push him away from his food and trample on him;\nand when they were old enough to play they used to pull him about by his\nears and pack on to him--three or four to one--and bully him horribly.\nMany a time I rescued him, and many a time gave him a little preserved\nmilk and water with bread soaked in it when the others had shouldered\nhim out and eaten everything.\n\nAfter a little while, when my chance of getting one of the good puppies\nseemed hopeless and I got used to the idea that I would have to take the\nodd one, I began to notice little things about him that no one else\nnoticed, and got to be quite fond of the little beggar--in a kind of\nway.  Perhaps I was turning my sand into gold, and my geese into swans;\nperhaps I grew fond of him simply because, finding him lonely and with\nno one else to depend on, I befriended him; and perhaps it was because\nhe was always cheerful and plucky and it seemed as if there might be\nsome good stuff in him after all.  Those were the things I used to think\nof sometimes when feeding the little outcast.  The other puppies would\ntumble him over and take his food from him; they would bump into him\nwhen he was stooping over the dish of milk and porridge, and his head\nwas so big and his legs so weak that he would tip up and go heels over\nhead into the dish.  We were always picking him out of the food and\nscraping it off him: half the time he was wet and sticky, and the other\nhalf covered with porridge and sand baked hard by the sun.\n\nOne day just after the waggons had started, as I took a final look round\nthe outspan place to see if anything had been forgotten, I found the\nlittle chap--who was only about four inches high--struggling to walk\nthrough the long grass.  He was not big enough or strong enough to push\nhis way--even the stems of the down-trodden grass tripped him--and he\nstumbled and floundered at every step, but he got up again each time\nwith his little tail standing straight up, his head erect, and his ears\ncocked.  He looked such a ridiculous sight that his little tragedy of\n\"lost in the veld\" was forgotten--one could only laugh.\n\nWhat he thought he was doing, goodness only knows; he looked as proud\nand important as if he owned the whole world and knew that every one in\nit was watching him.  The poor little chap could not see a yard in that\ngrass; and in any case he was not old enough to see much, or understand\nanything, for his eyes still had that bluish blind look that all very\nyoung puppies have, but he was marching along as full of confidence as a\ngeneral at the head of his army.  How he fell out of the waggon no one\nknew; perhaps the big puppies tumbled him out, or he may have tried to\nfollow Jess, or have climbed over the tail-board to see what was the\nother side, for he was always going off exploring by himself.  His\nlittle world was small, it may be--only the bed-plank of the waggon and\nthe few square yards of the ground on which they were dumped at the\noutspans--but he took it as seriously as any explorer who ever tackled a\ncontinent.\n\nThe others were a bit more softened towards the odd puppy when I caught\nup to the waggons and told them of his valiant struggle to follow; and\nthe man who had docked the puppies' tails allowed, \"I believe the rat's\ngot pluck, whatever else is the matter with him, for he was the only one\nthat didn't howl when I snipped them.  The little cuss just gave a grunt\nand turned round as if he wanted to eat me.  I think he'd 'a' been\nterrible angry if he hadn't been so s'prised.  Pity he's such an\nawful-looking mongrel.\"\n\nBut no one else said a good word for him: he was really beneath notice,\nand if ever they had to speak about him they called him \"The Rat.\"\nThere is no doubt about it he was extremely ugly, and instead of\nimproving as he grew older, he became worse; yet, I could not help\nliking him and looking after him, sometimes feeling sorry for him,\nsometimes being tremendously amused, and sometimes--wonderful to\nrelate--really admiring him.  He was extraordinarily silent; while the\nothers barked at nothing, howled when lonely, and yelled when frightened\nor hurt, the odd puppy did none of these things; in fact, he began to\nshow many of Jess's peculiarities; he hardly ever barked, and when he\ndid it was not a wild excited string of barks but little suppressed\nmuffled noises, half bark and half growl, and just one or two at a time;\nand he did not appear to be afraid of anything, so one could not tell\nwhat he would do if he was.\n\nOne day we had an amusing instance of his nerve: one of the oxen,\nsniffing about the outspan, caught sight of him all alone, and filled\nwith curiosity came up to examine him, as a hulking silly old tame ox\nwill do.  It moved towards him slowly and heavily with its ears spread\nwide and its head down, giving great big sniffs at this new object,\ntrying to make out what it was.  \"The Rat\" stood quite still with his\nstumpy tail cocked up and his head a little on one side, and when the\nhuge ox's nose was about a foot from him he gave one of those funny\nabrupt little barks.  It was as if the object had suddenly `gone off'\nlike a cracker, and the ox nearly tumbled over with fright; but even\nwhen the great mountain of a thing gave a clumsy plunge round and\ntrotted off, \"The Rat\" was not the least frightened; he was startled,\nand his tail and ears flickered for a second, but stiffened up again\ninstantly, and with another of those little barks he took a couple of\nsteps forward and cocked his head on the other side.  That was his way.\n\nHe was not a bit like the other puppies; if any one fired off a gun or\ncracked one of the big whips the whole five would yell at the top of\ntheir voices and, wherever they were, would start running, scrambling\nand floundering as fast as they could towards the waggon without once\nlooking back to see what they were running away from.  The odd puppy\nwould drop his bone with a start or would jump round; his ears and tail\nwould flicker up and down for a second; then he would slowly bristle up\nall over, and with his head cocked first on one side and then on the\nother, stare hard with his half-blind bluish puppy eyes in the direction\nof the noise; but he never ran away.\n\nAnd so, little by little, I got to like him in spite of his awful\nugliness.  And it really was awful!  The other puppies grew big all\nover, but the odd one at that time seemed to grow only in one part--his\ntummy!  The poor little chap was born small and weak; he had always been\nbullied and crowded out by the others, and the truth is he was half\nstarved.  The natural consequence of this was that as soon as he could\nwalk about and pick up things for himself he made up for lost time, and\nfilled up his middle piece to an alarming size before the other parts of\nhis body had time to grow; at that time he looked more like a big\ntock-tockie beetle than a dog.\n\nBesides the balloon-like tummy he had stick-out bandy-legs, very like a\nbeetle's too, and a neck so thin that it made the head look enormous,\nand you wondered how the neck ever held it up.  But what made him so\nsupremely ridiculous was that he evidently did not know he was ugly; he\nwalked about as if he was always thinking of his dignity, and he had\nthat puffed-out and stuck-up air of importance that you only see in\nsmall people and bantam cocks who are always trying to appear an inch\ntaller than they really are.\n\nWhen the puppies were about a month old, and could feed on porridge or\nbread soaked in soup or gravy, they got to be too much for Jess, and she\nused to leave them for hours at a time and hide in the grass so as to\nhave a little peace and sleep.  Puppies are always hungry, so they soon\nbegan to hunt about for themselves, and would find scraps of meat and\nporridge or old bones; and if they could not get anything else, would\ntry to eat the raw-hide nekstrops and reims.  Then the fights began.  As\nsoon as one puppy saw another busy on anything, he would walk over\ntowards him and, if strong enough, fight him for it.  All day long it\nwas nothing but wrangle, snarl, bark and yelp.  Sometimes four or five\nwould be at it in one scrum; because as soon as one heard a row going on\nhe would trot up hoping to steal the bone while the others were busy\nfighting.\n\nIt was then that I noticed other things about the odd puppy: no matter\nhow many packed on to him, or how they bit or pulled him, he never once\nlet out a yelp; with four or five on top of him you would see him on his\nback, snapping right and left with bare white teeth, gripping and\nworrying them when he got a good hold of anything, and all the time\ngrowling and snarling with a fierceness that was really comical.  It\nsounded as a lion fight might sound in a toy phonograph.\n\nBefore many days passed, it was clear that some of the other puppies\nwere inclined to leave \"The Rat\" alone, and that only two of them--the\ntwo biggest--seemed anxious to fight him and could take his bones away.\nThe reason soon became apparent: instead of wasting his breath in making\na noise, or wasting strength in trying to tumble the others over, \"The\nRat\" simply bit hard and hung on; noses, ears, lips, cheeks, feet and\neven tails--all came handy to him; anything he could get hold of and\nhang on to was good enough, and the result generally was that in about\nhalf a minute the other puppy would leave everything and clear off\nyelling, and probably holding up one paw or hanging its head on one side\nto ease a chewed ear.\n\nWhen either of the big puppies tackled the little fellow the fight\nlasted much longer.  Even if he were tumbled over at once--as generally\nhappened--and the other one stood over him barking and growling, that\ndid not end the fight: as soon as the other chap got off him he would\nstruggle up and begin again; he would not give in.  The other puppies\nseemed to think there was some sort of rule like the `count out' in\nboxing, or that once you were tumbled over you ought to give up the\nbone; but the odd puppy apparently did not care about rules; as far as I\ncould see, he had just one rule: \"Stick to it,\" so it was not very long\nbefore even the two big fellows gave up interfering with him.  The bites\nfrom his little white teeth--sharp as needles--which punctured noses and\nfeet and tore ears, were most unpleasant.  But apart from that, they\nfound there was nothing to be gained by fighting him: they might roll\nhim over time after time, but he came back again and worried them so\npersistently that it was quite impossible to enjoy the bone--they had to\nkeep on fighting for it.\n\nAt first I drew attention to these things, but there was no\nencouragement from the others; they merely laughed at the attempt to\nmake the best of a bad job.  Sometimes owners of other puppies were\nnettled by having their beauties compared with \"The Rat,\" or were\nannoyed because he had the cheek to fight for his own and beat them.\nOnce, when I had described how well he had stood up to Billy's pup,\nRobbie caught up \"The Rat,\" and placing him on the table, said: \"Hats\noff to the Duke of Wellington on the field of Waterloo.\"  That seemed to\nme the poorest sort of joke to send five grown men into fits of\nlaughter.  He stood there on the table with his head on one side, one\near standing up, and his stumpy tail twiggling--an absurd picture of\nfriendliness, pride and confidence; yet he was so ugly and ridiculous\nthat my heart sank, and I whisked him away.  They made fun of him, and\nhe did not mind; but it was making fun of me too, and I could not help\nknowing why; it was only necessary to put the puppies together to see\nthe reason.\n\nAfter that I stopped talking about him, and made the most of the good\npoints he showed, and tried to discover more.  It was the only\nconsolation for having to take the leavings of the litter.\n\nThen there came a day when something happened which might easily have\nturned out very differently, and there would have been no stories and no\nJock to tell about; and the best dog in the world would never have been\nmy friend and companion.  The puppies had been behaving very badly, and\nhad stolen several nekstrops and chewed up parts of one or two big\nwhips; the drivers were grumbling about all the damage done and the\nextra work it gave them; and Ted, exasperated by the worry of it all,\nannounced that the puppies were quite old enough to be taken away, and\nthat those who had picked puppies must take them at once and look after\nthem, or let some one else have them.  When I heard him say that my\nheart gave a little thump from excitement, for I knew the day had come\nwhen the great question would be settled once and for all.  Here was a\nglorious and unexpected chance; perhaps one of the others would not or\ncould not take his, and I might get one of the good ones...  Of course\nthe two big ones would be snapped up: that was certain; for, even if the\nmen who had picked them could not take them, others; who had been\npromised puppies before me would exchange those they had already chosen\nfor the better ones.  Still, there were other chances; and I thought of\nvery little else all day long, wondering if any of the good ones would\nbe left; and if so, which?\n\nIn the afternoon Ted came up to where we were all lying in the shade and\nstartled us with the momentous announcement:\n\n\"Billy Griffiths can't take his pup!\"\n\nEvery man of us sat up.  Billy's pup was the first pick, the champion of\nthe litter, the biggest and strongest of the lot.  Several of the others\nsaid at once that they would exchange theirs for this one; but Ted\nsmiled and shook his head.\n\n\"No,\" he said, \"you had a good pick in the beginning.\"  Then he turned\nto me, and added: \"You've only had leavings.\"  Some one said \"The Rat,\"\nand there was a shout of laughter, but Ted went on; \"You can have\nBilly's pup.\"\n\nIt seemed too good to be true; not even in my wildest imaginings had I\nfancied myself getting the pick of the lot.  I hardly waited to thank\nTed before going off to look at my champion.  I had seen and admired him\ntimes out of number, but it seemed as if he must look different now that\nhe belonged to me.  He was a fine big fellow, well built and strong, and\nlooked as if he could beat all the rest put together.  His legs were\nstraight; his neck sturdy; his muzzle dark and shapely; his ears equal\nand well carried; and in the sunlight his yellow coat looked quite\nbright, with occasional glints of gold in it.  He was indeed a handsome\nfellow.\n\nAs I put him back again with the others the odd puppy, who had stood up\nand sniffed at me when I came, licked my hand and twiddled his tail with\nthe friendliest and most independent air, as if he knew me quite well\nand was glad to see me, and I patted the poor little chap as he waddled\nup.  I had forgotten him in the excitement of getting Billy's pup; but\nthe sight of him made me think of his funny ways, his pluck and\nindependence, and of how he had not a friend in the world except Jess\nand me; and I felt downright sorry for him.  I picked him up and talked\nto him; and when his wizened little face was close to mine, he opened\nhis mouth as if laughing, and shooting out his red tongue dabbed me\nright on the tip of my nose in pure friendliness.  The poor little\nfellow looked more ludicrous than ever: he had been feeding again and\nwas as tight as a drum; his skin was so tight one could not help\nthinking that if he walked over a mimosa thorn and got a scratch on the\ntummy he would burst like a toy balloon.\n\nI put him back with the other puppies and returned to the tree where Ted\nand the rest were sitting.  As I came up there was a shout of laughter,\nand--turning round to see what had provoked it--I found \"The Rat\" at my\nheels.  He had followed me and was trotting and stumbling along,\ntripping every yard or so, but getting up again with head erect, ears\ncocked and his stumpy tail twiddling away just as pleased and proud as\nif he thought he had really started in life and was doing what only a\n`really and truly' grown-up dog is supposed to do--that is, follow his\nmaster wherever he goes.\n\nAll the old chaff and jokes were fired off at me again, and I had no\npeace for quite a time.  They all had something to say: \"He won't swap\nyou off!\"\n\n\"I'll back `The Rat'!\"  \"He is going to take care of you!\"\n\n\"He is afraid you'll get lost!\" and so on; and they were still chaffing\nabout it when I grabbed \"The Rat\" and took him back again.\n\nBilly's failure to take his puppy was so entirely unexpected and so\nimportant that the subject kept cropping up all the evening.  It was\nvery amusing then to see how each of those who had wanted to get him\nsucceeded in finding good reasons for thinking that his own puppy was\nreally better than Billy's.  However they differed in their estimates of\neach other's dogs, they all agreed that the best judge in the world\ncould not be certain of picking out the best dog in a good litter until\nthe puppies were several months old; and they all gave instances in\nwhich the best looking puppy had turned out the worst dog, and others in\nwhich the one that no one would look at had grown up to be the champion.\nGoodness knows how long this would have gone on if Robbie had not\nmischievously suggested that \"perhaps `The Rat' was going to beat the\nwhole lot.\"  There was such a chorus of guffaws at this that no one told\nany more stories.\n\nThe poor little friendless Rat!  It was unfortunate, but the truth is\nthat he was uglier than before; and yet I could not help liking him.  I\nfell asleep that night thinking of the two puppies--the best and the\nworst in the litter.  No sooner had I gone over all the splendid points\nin Billy's pup and made up my mind that he was certainly the finest I\nhad ever seen, than the friendly wizened little face, the half-cocked\nears and head on one side, the cocky little stump of a tail, and the\ncomical dignified plucky look of the odd puppy would all come back to\nme.  The thought of how he had licked my hand and twiddled his tail at\nme, and how he dabbed me on the nose, and then the manful way in which\nhe had struggled after me through the grass, all made my heart go soft\ntowards him, and I fell asleep not knowing what to do.\n\nWhen I woke up in the morning, my first thought was of the odd puppy--\nhow he looked to me as his only friend, and what he would feel like if,\nafter looking on me as really belonging to him and as the one person\nthat he was going to take care of all his life, he knew he was to be\nleft behind or given away to any one who would take him.  It would never\nhave entered his head that he required some one to look after him; from\nthe way he had followed me the night before it was clear he was looking\nafter me; and the other fellows thought the same thing.  His whole\nmanner had plainly said: \"Never mind old man!  Don't you worry: I am\nhere.\"\n\nWe used to make our first trek at about three o'clock in the morning, so\nas to be outspanned by sunrise; and walking along during that morning\ntrek I recalled all the stories that the others had told of miserable\npuppies having grown into wonderful dogs, and of great men who had been\nvery ordinary children; and at breakfast I took the plunge.\n\n\"Ted,\" I said, bracing myself for the laughter, \"if you don't mind, I'll\nstick to `The Rat.'\"\n\nIf I had fired off a gun under their noses they would have been much\nless startled.  Robbie made a grab for his plate as it slipped from his\nknees.\n\n\"_Don't_ do that sort of thing!\" he protested indignantly.  \"My nerves\nwon't stand it!\"\n\nThe others stopped eating and drinking, held their beakers of steaming\ncoffee well out of the way to get a better look at me, and when they saw\nit was seriously meant there was a chorus of: \"Well, I'm hanged.\"\n\nI took him in hand at once--for now he was really mine--and brought him\nover for his saucer of soaked bread and milk to where we sat at\nbreakfast.  Beside me there was a rough camp table--a luxury sometimes\nindulged in while camping or trekking with empty waggons--on which we\nput our tinned-milk, treacle and such things to keep them out of reach\nof the ants, grasshoppers, Hottentot-gods, beetles and dust.  I put the\npuppy and his saucer in a safe place under the table out of the way of\nstray feet, and sank the saucer into the sand so that when he trod in it\nhe would not spill the food; for puppies are quite stupid as they are\ngreedy, and seem to think that they can eat faster by getting further\ninto the dish.  He appeared to be more ravenous than usual, and we were\nall amused by the way the little fellow craned his thin neck out further\nand further until he tipped up behind and his nose bumping into the\nsaucer see-sawed him back again.  He finished it all and looked round\nbriskly at me, licking his lips and twiddling his stumpy tail.\n\nWell, I meant to make a dog of him, so I gave him another lot.  He was\njust like a little child--he thought he was very hungry still and could\neat any amount more; but it was not possible.  The lapping became slower\nand more laboured, with pauses every now and then to get breath or lick\nhis lips and look about him, until at last he was fairly beaten: he\ncould only look at it, blink and lick his chops; and, knowing that he\nwould keep on trying, I took the saucer away.  He was too full to object\nor to run after it; he was too full to move.  He stood where he was,\nwith his legs well spread and his little body blown out like a balloon,\nand finished licking the drops and crumbs off his face without moving a\nfoot.\n\nThere was something so extraordinarily funny in the appearance and\nattitude of the puppy that we watched to see what he would do next.  He\nhad been standing very close to the leg of the table, but not quite\ntouching it, when he finished feeding; and even after he had done\nwashing his face and cleaning up generally, he stood there stock-still\nfor several minutes, as though it was altogether too much trouble to\nmove.  One little bandy hind leg stuck out behind the table-leg, and the\nbulge of his little tummy stuck out in front of it; so that when at last\nhe decided to make a move the very first little lurch brought his hip up\nagainst the table-leg.  In an instant the puppy's appearance changed\ncompletely: the hair on his back and shoulders bristled; his head went\nup erect; one ear stood up straight and the other at half cock; and his\nstumpy tail quivered with rage.  He evidently thought that one of the\nother puppies had come up behind to interfere with him.  He was too\nproud to turn round and appear to be nervous: with head erect he glared\nhard straight in front of him, and, with all the little breath that he\nhad left after his big feed, he growled ferociously in comical little\ngasps.  He stood like that, not moving an inch, with the front foot\nstill ready to take that step forward; and then, as nothing more\nhappened, the hair on his back gradually went flat again; the fierceness\ndied out of his face; and the growling stopped.\n\nAfter a minute's pause, he again very slowly and carefully began to step\nforward; of course exactly the same thing happened again, except that\nthis time he shook all over with rage, and the growling was fiercer and\nmore choky.  One could not imagine anything so small being in so great a\nrage.  He took longer to cool down, too, and much longer before he made\nthe third attempt to start.  But the third time it was all over in a\nsecond.  He seemed to think that this was more than any dog could stand,\nand that he must put a stop to it.  The instant his hip touched the leg,\nhe whipped round with a ferocious snarl--his little white teeth bared\nand gleaming--and bumped his nose against the table-leg.\n\nI cannot say whether it was because of the shout of laughter from us, or\nbecause he really understood what had happened, that he looked so\nfoolish, but he just gave one crestfallen look at me and with a feeble\nwag of his tail waddled off as fast as he could.\n\nThen Ted nodded over at me, and said: \"I believe you have got the\nchampion after all!\"  And I was too proud to speak.\n\n\nCHAPTER FIVE.\n\nJOCK'S SCHOOLDAYS.\n\nAfter that day no one spoke of \"The Rat\" or \"The Odd Puppy,\" or used any\nof the numberless nicknames that they had given him, such as \"The\nSpecimen,\" \"The Object,\" \"Number 6,\" \"Bully-Beef,\" (because he got his\nhead stuck in a half-pound tin one day), \"The Scrap\"; and even \"The Duke\nof Wellington\" ceased to be a gibe.  They still laughed at his\nridiculous dignity; and they loved to tease him to see him stiffen with\nrage and hear his choky little growls; but they liked his independence\nand admired his tremendous pluck.  So they respected his name when he\ngot one.\n\nAnd his name was \"Jock.\"\n\nNo one bothered about the other puppies' names: they were known as\n\"Billy's pup,\" \"Jimmy's pup,\" \"Old Joe's Darling,\" \"Yellow Jack,\" and\n\"Bandy-Legged Sue\"; but they seemed to think that this little chap had\nearned his name, fighting his way without anybody's help and with\neverything against him; so they gave up all the nicknames and spoke of\nhim as \"Jock.\"\n\nJock got such a good advertisement by his fight with the table-leg that\nevery one took notice of him now and remarked about what he did; and as\nhe was only a very young puppy, they teased him, fed him, petted him,\nand did their best to spoil him.  He was so young that it did not seem\nto matter, but I think if he had not been a really good dog at heart he\nwould have been quite spoilt.\n\nHe soon began to grow and fill out; and it was then that he taught the\nother puppies to leave him alone.  If they had not interfered with him\nhe might perhaps have left them alone, as it was not his nature to\ninterfere with others; but the trouble was they had bullied him so much\nwhile he was weak and helpless that he got used to the idea of fighting\nfor everything.  It is probably the best thing that could have happened\nto Jock that as a puppy he was small and weak, but full of pluck; it\ncompelled him to learn how to fight; it made him clever, cool, and\ncareful, for he could not afford to make mistakes.  When he fought he\nmeant business; he went for a good spot, bit hard, and hung on for all\nhe was worth; then, as the enemy began to slacken, he would start\nvigorously worrying and shaking.  I often saw him shake himself off his\nfeet, because the thing he was fighting was too heavy for him.\n\nThe day Jock fought the two big puppies--one after the other--for his\nbone, and beat them off, was the day of his independence; we all saw the\ntussle, and cheered the little chap.  And then for one whole day he had\npeace; but it was like the pause at low water before the tide begins to\nflow the other way.  He was so used to being interfered with that I\nsuppose he did not immediately understand they would never tackle him\nagain.\n\nIt took a whole day for him to realise this; but as soon as he did\nunderstand it he seemed to make up his mind that now his turn had come,\nand he went for the first puppy he saw with a bone.  He walked up slowly\nand carefully, and began to make a circle round him.  When he got about\nhalf-way round the puppy took up the bone and trotted off; but Jock\nheaded him off at once, and again began to walk towards him very slowly\nand stiffly.  The other puppy stood quite still for a moment, and then\nJock's fierce determined look was too much for him: he dropped the bone\nand bolted.\n\nThere was mighty little but smell on those bones, for we gave the\npuppies very little meat, so when Jock had taken what he could off this\none, he started on another hunt.  A few yards away Billy's pup was\nhaving a glorious time, struggling with a big bone and growling all the\nwhile as if he wanted to let the world know that it was as much as any\none's life was worth to come near him.  None of us thought Jock would\ntackle him, as Billy's pup was still a long way the biggest and\nstrongest of the puppies, and always ready to bully the others.\n\nJock was about three or four yards away when he caught sight of Billy's\npup, and for about a minute he stood still and quietly watched.  At\nfirst he seemed surprised, and then interested, and then gradually he\nstiffened up all over in that funny way of his; and when the hair on his\nshoulders was all on end and his ears and tail were properly up, he\nmoved forward very deliberately.  In this fashion he made a circle round\nBilly's pup, keeping about two feet away from him, walking infinitely\nslowly and glaring steadily at the enemy out of the corners of his eyes;\nand while he was doing this, the other fellow was tearing away at his\nbone, growling furiously and glaring sideways at Jock.  When the circle\nwas finished they stood once more face to face; and then after a short\npause Jock began to move in closer, but more slowly even than before.\n\nBilly's pup did not like this: it was beginning to look serious.  He\ncould not keep on eating and at the same time watch Jock; moreover,\nthere was such a very unpleasant wicked look about Jock, and he moved so\nsteadily and silently forward, that any one would feel a bit creepy and\nnervous; so he put his paw on the bone and let out a string of snarly\nbarks, with his ears flat on his neck and his tail rather low down.  But\nJock still came on--a little more carefully and slowly perhaps, but just\nas steadily as ever.  When about a foot off the enemy's nose he changed\nhis direction slightly, as if to walk past, and Billy's pup turned his\nhead to watch him, keeping his nose pointed towards Jock's, but when\nthey got side by side he again looked straight in front of him.\n\nPerhaps he did this to make sure the bone was still there, or perhaps to\nshow his contempt when he thought Jock was going off.  Whatever the\nreason was, it was a mistake; for, as he turned his head away, Jock flew\nat him, got a good mouthful of ear, and in no time they were rolling and\nstruggling in the dust--Jock's little grunts barely-audible in the noise\nmade by the other one.  Billy's pup was big and strong, and he was not a\ncoward; but Jock was worrying his ear vigorously, and he could not find\nanything to bite in return.  In less than a minute he began to howl, and\nwas making frantic efforts to get away.  Then Jock let go the ear and\ntackled the bone.\n\nAfter that he had no more puppy fights.  As soon as any one of the\nothers saw Jock begin to walk slowly and carefully towards him he seemed\nto suddenly get tired of his bone, and moved off.\n\nMost dogs--like most people--when their hearts fail them will try to\nhide the truth from one another and make some sort of effort or pretence\nto keep their dignity or self-respect or the good opinion of others.\nYou may see it all any day in the street, when dogs meet and stop to\n`size' each other up.  As a rule the perfectly shameless cowards are\nfound in the two extreme classes--the outcasts, whose spirits are broken\nby all the world being against them; and the pampered darlings, who have\nnever had to do anything for themselves.  Many dogs who are clearly\nanxious to get out of fighting will make a pretence of bravery at\nthe time, or at least cover up their cowardice, with a\n`wait-till-I-catch-you-next-time' air, as soon as they are at a safe\ndistance.  Day after day at the outspans the puppies went through every\nstage of the business, to our constant amusement and to my unconcealed\npride; for Jock was thenceforth cock of the walk.  If they saw him some\ndistance off moving towards them or even staring hard and with his ears\nand tail up, the retreat would be made with a gloomy and dignified air,\nsometimes even with growls just loud enough to please themselves without\nprovoking him; if he was fairly close up when spotted they wasted no\ntime in putting on airs, but trotted off promptly; but sometimes they\nwould be too busy to notice anything until a growl or a rustle in the\ngrass close behind gave warning; and it was always followed by a jump\nand a shameless scuttle, very often accompanied by a strangled sort of\nyowling yelp, just as if he had already got them by the ear or throat.\n\nSome of them became so nervous that we could not resist playing\npractical jokes on them--making sudden strange noises, imitating Jock's\ngrowls, tossing bits of bark at them or touching them from behind with a\nstick while they were completely occupied with their bones--for the fun\nof seeing the stampede and hearing the sudden howls of surprise and\nfright.\n\nOne by one the other puppies were taken away by their new masters, and\nbefore Jock was three months old he and Jess were the only dogs with the\nwaggons.  Then he went to school, and like all schoolboys learnt some\nthings very quickly--the things that he liked; and some things he learnt\nvery slowly, and hated them just as a boy hates extra work in play-time.\nWhen I poked about with a stick in the banks of dongas to turn out mice\nand field-rats for him, or when I hid a partridge or a hare and made him\nfind it, he was as happy as could be; but when I made him lie down and\nwatch my gun or coat while I pretended to go off and leave him, he did\nnot like it; and as for his lessons in manners! well, he simply hated\nthem.\n\nThere are some things which a dog in that sort of life simply must learn\nor you cannot keep him; and the first of these is, not to steal.  Every\npuppy will help himself until he is taught not to; and your dog lives\nwith you and can get at everything.  At the outspans the grub-box is put\non the ground, open for each man to help himself; if you make a stew, or\nroast the leg of a buck, the big three-legged pot is put down handy and\nleft there; if you are lucky enough to have some tinned butter or\ncondensed milk, the tins are opened and stood on the ground; and if you\nhave a dog thief in the camp, nothing is safe.\n\nThere was a dog with us once--a year or two later--who was the worst\nthief I ever knew.  He was a one-eyed pointer with feet like a duck's,\nand his name was Snarleyow.  He looked the most foolish and most\ninnocent dog in the world, and was so timid that if you stumbled as you\npassed him he would instantly start howling and run for the horizon.\nThe first bad experience I had of Snarley was on one of the little\nhunting trips which we sometimes made in those days, away from the\nwaggons.  We travelled light on those occasions, and, except for some\ntea and a very little flour and salt, took no food; we lived on what we\nshot and of course kept `hunter's pot.'\n\n`Hunter's pot' is a perpetual stew; you make one stew, and keep it going\nas long as necessary, maintaining a full pot by adding to it as fast as\nyou take any out; scraps of everything go in; any kind of meat--buck,\nbird, pig, hare--and if you have such luxuries as onions or potatoes, so\nmuch the better; then, to make the soup strong, the big bones are\nadded--the old ones being fished out every day and replaced by a fresh\nlot.  When allowed to cool it sets like brawn, and a hungry hunter wants\nnothing better.\n\nWe had had a good feed the first night of this trip and had then filled\nthe pot up leaving it to simmer as long as the fire lasted, expecting to\nhave cold pie set in jelly--but without the pie-crust--for early\nbreakfast next morning before going off for the day; but, to our\namazement, in the morning the pot was empty.  There were some strange\nkaffirs--camp followers--hanging on to our trail for what they could\npick up, and we suspected them.  There was a great row, but the boys\ndenied having touched the pot, and we could prove nothing.\n\nThat night we made the fire close to our sleeping-place and moved the\nkaffirs further away, but next morning the pot was again empty--cleaned\nand polished as if it had been washed out.  While we, speechless with\nastonishment and anger, were wondering who the thief was and what we\nshould do with him, one of the hunting boys came up and pointed to the\nprints of a dog's feet in the soft white ashes of the dead fire.  There\nwas only one word: \"Snarleyow.\"  The thief was lying fast asleep\ncomfortably curled up on his master's clothes.  There could be no\nmistake about those big splayed footprints, and in about two minutes\nSnarleyow was getting a first-class hammering, with his head tied inside\nthe three-legged pot for a lesson.\n\nAfter that he was kept tied up at night; but Snarleyow was past curing.\nWe had practically nothing to eat but what we shot, and nothing to drink\nbut bush tea--that is, tea made from a certain wild shrub with a very\nstrong scent; it is not nice, but you drink it when you cannot get\nanything else.  We could not afford luxuries then, but two days before\nTed's birthday he sent a runner off to Komati Drift and bought a small\ntin of ground coffee and a tin of condensed milk for his birthday treat.\nIt was to be a real feast that day, so he cut the top off the tin\ninstead of punching two holes and blowing the milk out, as we usually\ndid in order to economise and keep out the dust and insects.  What we\ncould not use in the coffee that day we were going to spread on our\n`dough-boys' instead of butter and jam.  It was to be a real feast!\n\nThe five of us sat down in a circle and began on our hunter's pot,\nsaving the good things for the last.  While we were still busy on the\nstew, there came a pathetic heartbreaking yowl from Snarleyow, and we\nlooked round just in time to see him, his tail tucked between his legs\nand his head high in the air, bolting off into the bush as hard as he\ncould lay legs to the ground, with the milk tin stuck firmly on to his\nnose.  The greedy thief in trying to get the last scrap out had dug his\nnose and top jaw too far in, and the jagged edges of the tin had gripped\nhim; and the last we saw of our birthday treat was the tin flashing in\nthe sunlight on Snarley's nose as he tore away howling into the bush.\nSnarleyow came to a bad end: his master shot him as he was running off\nwith a ham.  He was a full-grown dog when he came to our camp, and too\nold to learn principles and good manners.\n\nDogs are like people: what they learn when they are young, whether of\ngood or of evil, is not readily forgotten.  I began early with Jock,\nand--remembering what Rocky had said--tried to help him.  It is little\nuse punishing a dog for stealing if you take no trouble about feeding\nhim.  That is very rough on the dog; he has to find out slowly and by\nhimself what he may take, and what he may not.  Sometimes he leaves what\nhe was meant to take, and goes hungry; and sometimes takes what was not\nintended for him, and gets a thrashing.  That is not fair.  You cannot\nexpect to have a good dog, and one that will understand you, if you\ntreat him in that way.  Some men teach their dogs not to take food from\nany one but themselves.  One day when we were talking about training\ndogs, Ted told one of the others to open Jess's mouth and put a piece of\nmeat in it, he undertaking not to say a word and not even to look at\nher.  The meat was put in her mouth and her jaws were shut tight on it;\nbut the instant she was free she dropped it, walked round to the other\nside of Ted and sat close up to him.  He waited for a minute or so and,\nwithout so much as a glance at her, said quietly \"All right.\"  She was\nback again in a second and with one hungry bite bolted the lump of meat.\n\nI taught Jock not to touch food in camp until he was told to `take it.'\nThe lesson began when he got his saucer of porridge in the morning; and\nhe must have thought it cruel to have that put in front of him, and then\nto be held back or tapped with a finger on the nose each time he tried\nto dive into it.  At first he struggled and fought to get at it; then he\ntried to back away and dodge round the other side; then he became dazed,\nand, thinking it was not for him at all, wanted to walk off and have\nnothing more to do with it.  In a few days, however, I got him to lie\nstill and take it only when I patted him and pushed him towards it; and\nin a very little time he got on so well that I could put his food down\nwithout saying anything and let him wait for permission.  He would lie\ndown with his head on his paws and his nose right up against the saucer,\nso as to lose no time when the order came; but he would not touch it\nuntil he heard `Take it.'  He never moved his head, but his little\nbrowny dark eyes, full of childlike eagerness, used to be turned up\nsideways and fixed on mine.  I believe he watched my lips; he was so\nquick to obey the order when it came.\n\nWhen he grew up and had learned his lessons there was no need for these\nexercises.  He got to understand me so well that if I nodded or moved my\nhand in a way that meant `all right,' he would go ahead: by that time\ntoo he was dignified and patient; and it was only in his puppyhood that\nhe used to crouch up close to his food and tremble with impatience and\nexcitement.\n\nThere was one lesson that he hated most of all.  I used to balance a\npiece of meat on his nose and make him keep it there until the word to\ntake it came.\n\nTime after time he would close his eyes as if the sight of the meat was\nmore than he could bear, and his mouth would water so from the savoury\nsmell that long streels of dribble would hang down on either side.\n\nIt seems unnecessary and even cruel to tantalise a dog in that way; but\nit was not: it was education; and it was true kindness.  It taught him\nto understand his master, and to be obedient, patient, and observant; it\ntaught him not to steal; it saved him from much sickness, and perhaps\ndeath, by teaching him not to feed on anything he could find; it taught\nhim manners and made it possible for him to live with his master and be\ntreated like a friend.\n\nGood feeding, good care, and plenty of exercise soon began to make a\ngreat change in Jock.  He ceased to look like a beetle--grew bigger\neverywhere, not only in one part as he had done at first; his neck grew\nthick and strong, and his legs straightened up and filled out with\nmuscle.  The others, seeing him every day, were slow to notice these\nthings, but my sand had been changed into gold long ago, and they always\nsaid I could not see anything wrong in Jock.\n\nThere was one other change which came more slowly and seemed to me much\nmore wonderful.  After his morning feed, if there was nothing to do, he\nused to go to sleep in some shady place, and I remember well one day\nwatching him as he lay.  His bit of shade had moved away and left him in\nthe bright sunshine; and as he breathed and his ribs rose and fell, the\ntips of the hairs on his side and back caught the sunlight and shone\nlike polished gold, and the wavy dark lines seemed more distinct and\ndarker, but still very soft.  In fact, I was astonished to see that in a\ncertain light Jock looked quite handsome.  That was the first time I\nnoticed the change in colour; and it made me remember two things.  The\nfirst was what the other fellows had said the day Billy gave up his pup,\n\"You can't tell how a puppy will turn out: even his colour changes;\" and\nthe second was a remark made by an old hunter who had offered to buy\nJock--the real meaning of which I did not understand at the time.\n\n\"The best dog I ever owned was a golden brindle,\" said the old man\nthoughtfully, after I had laughed at the idea of selling my dog.  I had\ngot so used to thinking that he was only a faded wishy-washy edition of\nJess that the idea of his colour changing did not occur to me then, and\nI never suspected that the old man could see how he would turn out; but\nthe touch of sunlight opened my eyes that day, and after that whenever I\nlooked at Jock the words \"golden brindle\" came back to my mind, and I\npictured him as he was going to be--and as he really did grow up--having\na coat like burnished gold with soft, dark, wavy brindles in it and that\nsnow-white V on his chest.\n\nJock had many things to learn besides the lessons he got from me--the\nlessons of experience which nobody could teach him.  When he was six\nmonths old--just old enough, if he had lived in a town, to chase a cat\nand make a noise--he knew many things that respectable puppies of twice\nhis age who stay at home never get a chance of learning.\n\nOn trek there were always new places to see, new roads to travel, and\nnew things to examine, tackle or avoid.  He learnt something fresh\nalmost every day: he learnt, for instance, that, although it was shady\nand cool under the waggon, it was not good enough to lie in the wheel\ntrack, not even for the pleasure of feeling the cool iron tyre against\nyour back or head as you slept; and he knew that, because one day he had\ndone it and the wheel had gone over his foot; and it might just as\neasily have been his back or head.  Fortunately the sand was soft and\nhis foot was not crushed; but he was very lame for some days, and had to\ntravel on the waggon.\n\nHe learned a good deal from Jess: among other things, that it was not\nnecessary to poke his nose up against a snake in order to find out what\nit was.  He knew that Jess would fight anything; and when one day he saw\nher back hair go up and watched her sheer off the footpath wide into the\ngrass, he did the same; and then when we had shot the snake, both he and\nJess came up very very cautiously and sniffed at it, with every hair on\ntheir bodies standing up.\n\nHe found out for himself that it was not a good idea to turn a scorpion\nover with his paw.  The vicious little tail with a thorn in it whipped\nover the scorpion's back, and Jock had such a foot that he must have\nthought a scorpion worse than two waggons.  He was a very sick dog for\nsome days; but after that, whenever he saw a thing that he did not\nunderstand, he would watch it very carefully from a little way off and\nnotice what it did and what it looked like, before trying experiments.\n\nSo, little by little, Jock got to understand plenty of things that no\ntown dog would ever know, and he got to know--just as some people do--by\nwhat we call instinct, whether a thing was dangerous or safe, even\nthough he had never seen anything like it before.  That is how he knew\nthat wolves or lions were about--and that they were dangerous--when he\nheard or scented them; although he had never seen, scented or heard one\nbefore to know what sort of animal it might be.  You may well wonder how\nhe could tell whether the scent or the cry belonged to a wolf which he\nmust avoid, or to a buck which he might hunt, when he had never seen\neither a wolf or a buck at the time; but he did know; and he also knew\nthat no dog could safely go outside the ring of the camp fires when wolf\nor lion was about.  I have known many town-bred dogs that could scent\nthem just as well as Jess or Jock could, but having no instinct of\ndanger they went out to see what it was, and of course they never came\nback.\n\nI used to take Jock with me everywhere so that he could learn everything\nthat a hunting dog ought to know, and above all things to learn that he\nwas my dog, and to understand all that I wanted to tell him.  So while\nhe was still a puppy, whenever he stopped to sniff at something new or\nto look at something strange, I would show him what it was; but if he\nstayed behind to explore while I moved on, or if he fell asleep and did\nnot hear me get up from where I had sat down to rest, or went off the\ntrack on his own account, I used to hide away from him on top of a rock\nor up a tree and let him hunt about until he found me.\n\nAt first he used to be quite excited when he missed me, but after a\nlittle time he got to know what to do and would sniff along the ground\nand canter away after me--always finding me quite easily.  Even if I\nclimbed a tree to hide from him he would follow my track to the foot of\nthe tree, sniff up the trunk as far as he could reach standing up\nagainst it, and then peer up into the branches.  If he could not see me\nfrom one place, he would try another--always with his head tilted a bit\non one side.  He never barked at these times; but as soon as he saw me,\nhis ears would drop, his mouth open wide with the red tongue lolling\nout, and the stump of a tail would twiggle away to show how pleased he\nwas.  Sometimes he would give a few little whimpery grunts: he hardly\never barked; when he did I knew there was something worth looking at.\n\nJock was not a quarrelsome dog, and he was quick to learn and very\nobedient, but in one connection I had great difficulty with him for\nquite a little time.  He had a sort of private war with the fowls; and\nit was due to the same cause as his war with the other puppies: they\ninterfered with him.  Now, every one knows what a fowl is like: it is\nimpudent, inquisitive, selfish, always looking for something to eat, and\nhas no principles.\n\nA friend of mine once told me a story about a dog of his and the trouble\nhe had with fowls.  Several of us had been discussing the characters of\ndogs, and the different emotions they feel and manage to express, and\nthe kind of things they seem to think about.  Every one knows that a dog\ncan feel angry, frightened, pleased, and disappointed.  Any one who\nknows dogs will tell you that they can also feel anxious, hopeful,\nnervous, inquisitive, surprised, ashamed, interested, sad, loving,\njealous, and contented--just like human beings.\n\nWe had told many stories illustrating this, when my friend asked the\nquestion: \"Have dogs a sense of humour?\"  Now I know that Jock looked\nvery foolish the day he fought the table-leg--and a silly old hen made\nhim look just as foolish another day--but that is not quite what my\nfriend meant.  On both occasions Jock clearly felt that he had made\nhimself look ridiculous; but he was very far from looking amused.  The\nquestion was: Is a dog capable of sufficient thinking to appreciate a\nsimple joke, and is it possible for a dog to feel amused.  If Jess had\nseen Jock bursting to fight the table-leg would she have seen the joke?\nWell, I certainly did not think so; but he said he was quite certain\nsome dogs have a sense of humour; and he had had proof of it.\n\nHe told the story very gravely, but I really do not even now know\nwhether he--Well, here it is: He had once owned a savage old watch-dog,\nwhose box stood in the back-yard where he was kept chained up all day;\nhe used to be fed once a day--in the mornings--and the great plague of\nhis life was the fowls.  They ran loose in the yard and picked up food\nall day, besides getting a really good feed of grain morning and\nevening; possibly the knowledge of this made the old dog particularly\nangry when they would come round by ones or twos or dozens trying to\nsteal part of his one meal.  Anyhow, he hated them, and whenever he got\na chance killed them.  The old fowls learned to keep out of his way and\nnever ventured within his reach unless they were quite sure that he was\nasleep or lying in his kennel where he could not see them; but there\nwere always new fowls coming, or young ones growing up; and so the war\nwent on.\n\nOne Sunday morning my friend was enjoying a smoke on his back stoep when\nfeeding time came round.  The cook took the old dog's food to him in a\nhigh three-legged pot, and my friend, seeing the fowls begin to gather\nround and wishing to let the old dog have his meal in peace, told the\ncook to give the fowls a good feed in another part of the yard to draw\nthem off.  So the old fellow polished off his food and licked the pot\nclean, leaving not a drop or a speck behind.\n\nBut fowls are very greedy; they were soon back again wandering about,\nwith their active-looking eyes searching everything.  The old dog,\nfeeling pretty satisfied with life, picked out a sandy spot in the\nsunshine, threw himself down full stretch on his side, and promptly went\nto sleep--at peace with all the world.  Immediately he did this, out\nstepped a long-legged athletic-looking young cockerel and began to\nadvance against the enemy.  As he got nearer he slowed down, and looked\nfirst with one eye and then with the other so as to make sure that all\nwas safe, and several times he paused with one foot poised high before\ndeciding to take the next step.  My friend was greatly amused to see all\nthe trouble that the fowl was taking to get up to the empty pot, and,\nfor the fun of giving the conceited young cockerel a fright, threw a\npebble at him.  He was so nervous that when the pebble dropped near him,\nhe gave one great bound and tore off flapping and screaming down the\nyard as if he thought the old dog was after him.  The old fellow himself\nwas startled out of his sleep, and raised his head to see what the row\nwas about; but, as nothing more happened, he lay down again, and the\ncockerel, finding also that it was a false alarm, turned back not a bit\nashamed for another try.\n\nThe cockerel had not seen the old dog lift his head; my friend had, and\nwhen he looked again he saw that, although the underneath eye--half\nburied in the sand--was shut, the top eye was open and was steadily\nwatching the cockerel as he came nearer and nearer to the pot.  My\nfriend sat dead still, expecting a rush and another fluttering scramble.\nAt last the cockerel took the final step, craned his neck to its utmost\nand peered down into the empty pot.  The old dog gave two gentle pats\nwith his tail in the sand, and closing his eye went to sleep again.\n\nJock had the same sort of trouble.  The fowls tried to steal his food;\nand he would not stand it.  His way of dealing with them was not good\nfor their health: before I could teach him not to kill, and before the\nfowls would learn not to steal, he had finished half a dozen of them one\nafter another with just one bite and a shake.  He would growl very low\nas they came up and, without lifting his head from the plate, watch them\nwith his little eyes turning from soft brown to shiny black; and when\nthey came too near and tried to snatch just one mouthful--well, one\njump, one shake, and it was all over.\n\nIn the end he learned to tumble them over and scare their wits out\nwithout hurting them; and they learned to give him a very wide berth.\n\nI used always to keep some fowls with the waggons, partly to have fresh\nmeat if we ran out of game, but mainly to have fresh eggs, which were a\nvery great treat; and as a rule it was only when a hen turned obstinate\nand would not lay that we ate her.  I used to have one old rooster,\nwhose name was Pezulu, and six or eight hens.  The hens changed from\ntime to time--as we ate them--but Pezulu remained.\n\nThe fowl-coop was carried on top of everything else, and it was always\nleft open so that the fowls could go in and out as they liked.  In the\nvery beginning of all, of course, the fowls were shut in and fed in the\ncoop for a day or two to teach them where their home was; but it is\nsurprising how quickly a fowl will learn and how it observes things.\nFor instance, the moving of the coop from one waggon to another is not a\nthing one would expect the fowls to notice, all the waggons being so\nmuch alike and having no regular order at the outspans; but they did\nnotice it, and at once.  They would first get on to the waggon on which\nthe coop had been, and look about in a puzzled lost kind of way; then\nwalk all over the load apparently searching for it, with heads cocked\nthis way and that, as if a great big coop was a thing that might have\nbeen mislaid somewhere; then one after another would jerk out short\ncackles of protest, indignation and astonishment, and generally make no\nend of a fuss.  It was only when old Pezulu led the way and perched on\nthe coop itself and crowed and called to them that they would get up on\nto the other waggon.\n\nPezulu got his name by accident--in fact, by a misunderstanding.  It is\na Zulu word meaning `up' or `on top,' and when the fowls first joined\nthe waggons and were allowed to wander about at the outspan places, the\nboys would drive them up when it was time to trek again by cracking\ntheir big whips and shouting \"Pezulu.\"  In a few days no driving or\nwhip-cracking was necessary; one of the boys would shout \"Pezulu\" three\nor four times, and they would all come in and one by one fly and\nscramble up to the coop.  One day, after we had got a new lot of hens, a\nstranger happened to witness the performance.  Old Pezulu was the only\none who knew what was meant, and being a terribly fussy nervous old\ngentleman, came tearing out of the bush making a lot of noise, and\nscrambled hastily on to the waggon.  The stranger, hearing the boys call\n\"Pezulu\" and seeing him hurry up so promptly, remarked: \"How well he\nknows his name!\"  So we called him Pezulu after that.\n\nWhenever we got new fowls Pezulu became as distracted as a nervous man\nwith a large family trying to find seats in an excursion train.  As soon\nas he saw the oxen being brought up, and before any one had called for\nthe fowls, he would begin fussing and fuming--trying all sorts of dodges\nto get the hens up to the waggons.  He would crow and cluck-cluck or\nkip-kip; he would go a few yards towards the waggons and scratch in the\nground, pretending to have found something good, and invite them to come\nand share it; he would get on the disselboom and crow and flap his wings\nloudly; and finally he would mount on top of the coop and make all sorts\nof signals to the hens, who took not the least notice of him.  As the\ninspanning went on he would get more and more excited; down he would\ncome again--not flying off, but hopping from ledge to ledge to show them\nthe easy way; and once more on the ground he would scrape and pick and\ncluck to attract them, and the whole game would be played over again and\nagain.  So even with new fowls we had very little trouble, as old Pezulu\ndid most of the teaching.\n\nBut sometimes Pezulu himself was caught napping--to the high delight of\nthe boys.  He was so nervous and so fussy that they thought it great fun\nto play tricks on him and pretend to go off and leave him behind.  It\nwas not easy to do this because, as I say, he did not wait to be called,\nbut got ready the minute he saw the oxen coming up.  He was like those\nfussy people who drive every one else crazy and waste a lot of time by\nalways being half an hour early, and then annoy you by boasting that\nthey have never missed a train in their lives.\n\nBut there was one way in which Pezulu used to get caught.  Just as he\nknew that inspanning meant starting, so, too, he knew that outspanning\nmeant stopping; and whenever the waggons stopped--even for a few\nminutes--out would pop his head, just like the fussy red-faced father of\nthe big family looking out to see if it was their station or an accident\non the line.  Right and left he would look, giving excited inquisitive\nclucks from time to time, and if they did not start in another minute or\ntwo, he would get right out and walk anxiously to the edge of the load\nand have another good look around--as the nervous old gentleman gets\nhalf out, and then right out, to look for the guard, but will not let go\nthe handle of the door for fear of being left.  Unless he saw the boys\noutspanning he would not get off, and if one of the hens ventured out he\nwould rush back at her in a great state and try to bustle her back into\nthe coop.  But often it happens while trekking that something goes wrong\nwith the gear--a yokeskey or a nek-strop breaks, or an ox will not pull\nkindly or pulls too hard where he is, and you want to change his place;\nand in that way it comes about that sometimes you have to outspan one or\ntwo or even more oxen in the middle of a trek.\n\nThat is how Pezulu used to get caught: the minute he saw outspanning\nbegin, he would nip off with all the hens following him and wander about\nlooking for food, chasing locusts or grasshoppers, and making darts at\nbeetles and all sorts of dainties--very much interested in his job and\nwandering further from the waggons at every step.  The boys would watch\nhim, and as soon as they were fixed up again, would start off without a\nword of warning to Pezulu.  Then there was a scene.  At the first sound\nof the waggon-wheels moving he would look up from where he was or walk\nbriskly into the open or get on to an ant-heap to see what was up, and\nwhen to his horror he saw the waggon actually going without him, he\nsimply screamed open-mouthed and tore along with wings outstretched--the\nold gentleman shouting \"Stop the train, stop the train,\" with his family\nstraggling along behind him.  It never took him long to catch up and\nscramble on, but even then he was not a bit less excited: he was\nperfectly hysterical, and his big red comb seemed to get quite purple as\nif he might be going to have apoplexy, and he twitched and jerked about\nso that it flapped first over one eye and then over the other.  This was\nthe boys' practical joke which they played on him whenever they could.\n\nThat was old Pezulu--Pezulu the First.  He was thick in the body, all\nchest and tail, short in the legs, and had enormous spurs; and his big\ncomb made him; look so red in the face that one could not help thinking\nhe was too fond of his dinner.  In some old Christmas number we came\nacross a coloured caricature of a militia colonel in full uniform, and\nfor quite a long time it remained tacked on to the coop with \"Pezulu\"\nwritten on it.\n\nPezulu the Great--who was Pezulu the Second--was not like that: he was a\ngame cock, all muscle and no frills, with a very resolute manner and a\nreal love of his profession; he was a bit like Jock in some things; and\nthat is why I fancy perhaps Jock and he were friends in a kind of way.\nBut Jock could not get on with the others: they were constantly\nchanging; new ones who had to be taught manners were always coming; so\nhe just lumped them together, and hated fowls.  He taught them manners,\nbut they taught him something too--at any rate, one of them did; and one\nof the biggest surprises and best lessons Jock ever had was given him by\na hen while he was still a growing-up puppy.\n\nHe was beginning to fancy that he knew a good deal, and like most young\ndogs was very inquisitive and wanted to know everything and at once.  At\nthat time he was very keen on hunting mice, rats and bush squirrels, and\nhad even fought and killed a meerkat after the plucky little rikkitikki\nhad bitten him rather badly through the lip; and he was still much\ninclined to poke his nose in or rush on to things instead of sniffing\nround about first.\n\nHowever, he learned to be careful, and an old hen helped to teach him.\nThe hens usually laid their eggs in the coop because it was their home,\nbut sometimes they would make nests in the bush at the outspan places.\nOne of the hens had done this, and the bush she had chosen was very low\nand dense.  No one saw the hen make the nest and no one saw her sitting\non it, for the sunshine was so bright everywhere else, and the shade of\nthe bush so dark that it was impossible to see anything there; but while\nwe were at breakfast Jock, who was bustling about everywhere as a puppy\nwill, must have scented the hen or have seen this brown thing in the\ndark shady hole.\n\nThe hen was sitting with her head sunk right down into her chest, so\nthat he could not see any head, eyes or beak--just a sort of brown lump.\nSuddenly we saw Jock stand stock-still, cock up one ear, put his head\ndown and his nose out, hump up his shoulders a bit and begin to walk\nvery slowly forward in a crouching attitude.  He lifted his feet so\nslowly and so softly that you could count five between each step.  We\nwere all greatly amused and thought he was pointing a mouse or a locust,\nand we watched him.\n\nHe crept up like a boy showing off until he was only six inches from the\nobject, giving occasional cautious glances back at us to attract\nattention.  Just as he got to the hole the hen let out a vicious peck on\nthe top of his nose and at the same time flapped over his head,\nscreaming and cackling for dear life.  It was all so sudden and so\nsurprising that she was gone before he could think of making a grab at\nher; and when he heard our shouts of laughter he looked as foolish as if\nhe understood all about it.\n\n\nCHAPTER SIX.\n\nTHE FIRST HUNT.\n\nJock's first experience in hunting was on the Crocodile River not far\nfrom the spot where afterwards we had the great fight with The Old\nCrocodile.  In the summer when the heavy rains flood the country the\nriver runs `bank high,' hiding everything--reeds, rocks, islands, and\nstunted trees--in some places silent and oily like a huge gorged snake,\nin others foaming and turbulent as an angry monster.  In the rainless\nwinter when the water is low and clear the scene is not so grand, but is\nquiet, peaceful, and much more beautiful.  There is an infinite variety\nin it then--the river sometimes winding along in one deep channel, but\nmore often forking out into two or three streams in the broad bed.  The\nloops and lacings of the divided water carve out islands and spaces of\nall shapes and sizes, banks of clean white sand or of firm damp mud\nswirled up by the floods, on which tall green reeds with yellow\ntasselled tops shoot up like crops of Kaffir corn.  Looked down upon\nfrom the flood banks the silver streaks of water gleam brightly in the\nsun, and the graceful reeds, bowing and swaying slowly with the gentlest\nbreeze and alternately showing their leaf-sheathed stems and crested\ntops, give the appearance of an ever-changing sea of green and gold.\nHere and there a big rock, black and polished, stands boldly out, and\nthe sea of reeds laps round it like the waters of a lake on a bright\nstill day.  When there is no breeze the rustle of the reeds is hushed,\nand the only constant sound is the ever-varying voice of the water,\nlapping, gurgling, chattering, murmuring, as it works its way along the\nrocky channels; sometimes near and loud, sometimes faint and distant;\nand sometimes, over long sandy reaches, there is no sound at all.\n\nGet up on some vantage point upon the high bank and look down there one\nday in the winter of the tropics as the heat and hush of noon approach,\nand it will seem indeed a scene of peace and beauty--a place to rest and\ndream, where there is neither stir nor sound.  Then, as you sit silently\nwatching and thinking, where all the world is so infinitely still, you\nwill notice that one reed down among all those countless thousands is\nmoving.  It bows slowly and gracefully a certain distance, and then with\na quivering shuddering motion straightens itself still more slowly and\nwith evident difficulty, until at last it stands upright again like the\nrest but still all a-quiver while they do not move a leaf.  Just as you\nare beginning to wonder what the reason is, the reed bows slowly again,\nand again struggles back; and so it goes on as regularly as the swing of\na pendulum.  Then you know that, down at the roots where you cannot see\nit, the water is flowing silently, and that something attached to this\nreed is dragging in the stream and pulling it over, and swinging back to\ndo it again each time the reed lifts it free--a perpetual seesaw.\n\nYou are glad to find the reason, because it looked a little uncanny; but\nthe behaviour of that one reed has stopped your dreaming and made you\nlook about more carefully.  Then you find that, although the reeds\nappear as still as the rocks, there is hardly a spot where, if you watch\nfor a few minutes, you will not see something moving.  A tiny\nfield-mouse climbing one reed will sway it over; a river rat gnawing at\nthe roots will make it shiver and rustle; little birds hopping from one\nto another will puzzle you; and a lagavaan turning in his sunbath will\nmake half a dozen sway outwards.\n\nAll feeling that it is a home of peace, a place to rest and dream,\nleaves you; you are wondering what goes on down below the green and gold\nwhere you can see nothing; and when your eye catches a bigger, slower,\ncontinuous movement in another place, and for twenty yards from the bank\nto the stream you see the tops of the reeds silently and gently parting\nand closing again as something down below works its way along without\nthe faintest sound, the place seems too quiet, too uncanny and\nmysterious, too silent, stealthy and treacherous for you to sit still in\ncomfort: you must get up and do something.\n\nThere is always good shooting along the rivers in a country where water\nis scarce.  Partridges, bush-pheasants and stembuck were plentiful along\nthe banks and among the thorns, but the reeds themselves were the home\nof thousands of guinea-fowl, and you could also count on duiker and\nrietbuck as almost a certainty there.  If this were all, it would be\nlike shooting in a well-stocked cover, but it is not only man that is on\nthe watch for game at the drinking-places.  The beasts of prey--lions,\ntigers, hyenas, wild dogs and jackals, and lastly pythons and\ncrocodiles--know that the game must come to water, and they lie in wait\nnear the tracks or the drinking-places.  That is what makes the mystery\nand charm of the reeds; you never know what you will put up.  The lions\nand tigers had deserted the country near the main drifts and followed\nthe big game into more peaceful parts; but the reeds were still the\nfavourite shelter and resting-place of the crocodiles; and there were\nany number of them left.\n\nThere is nothing that one comes across in hunting more horrible and\nloathsome than the crocodile: nothing that rouses the feeling of horror\nand hatred as it does: nothing that so surely and quickly gives the\nsensation of `creeps in the back' as the noiseless apparition of one in\nthe water just where you least expected anything, or the discovery of\none silently and intently watching you with its head resting flat on a\nsand spit--the thing you had seen half a dozen times before and mistaken\nfor a small rock.  Many things are hunted in the Bushveld; but only the\ncrocodile is hated.  There is always the feeling of horror that this\nhideous, cowardly, cruel thing--the enemy of man and beast alike--with\nits look of a cunning smile in the greeny glassy eyes and great wide\nmouth, will mercilessly drag you down--down--down to the bottom of some\ndeep still pool, and hold you there till you drown.  Utterly helpless\nyourself to escape or fight, you cannot even call, and if you could, no\none could help you there.  It is all done in silence: a few bubbles come\nup where a man went down; and that is the end of it.\n\nWe all knew about the crocodiles and were prepared for them, but the\nsport was good, and when you are fresh at the game and get interested in\na hunt it is not very easy to remember all the things you have been\nwarned about and the precautions you were told to take.  It was on the\nfirst day at the river that one of our party, who was not a very old\nhand at hunting, came in wet and muddy and told us how a crocodile had\nscared the wits out of him.  He had gone out after guinea-fowl, he said,\nbut as he had no dog to send in and flush them, the birds simply played\nwith him: they would not rise but kept running in the reeds a little way\nin front of him, just out of sight.  He could hear them quite\ndistinctly, and thinking to steal a march on them took off his boots and\ngot on to the rocks.  Stepping bare-footed from rock to rock where the\nreeds were thin, he made no noise at all and got so close up that he\ncould hear the little whispered chink-chink-chink that they give when\nnear danger.  The only chance of getting a shot at them was to mount one\nof the big rocks from which he could see down into the reeds; and he\nworked his way along a mud-bank towards one.  A couple more steps from\nthe mud-bank on to a low black rock would take him to the big one.\nWithout taking his eyes off the reeds where the guinea-fowl were he\nstepped cautiously on to the low black rock, and in an instant was swept\noff his feet, tossed and tumbled over and over, into the mud and reeds,\nand there was a noise of furious rushing and crashing as if a troop of\nelephants were stampeding through the reeds.  He had stepped on the back\nof a sleeping crocodile; no doubt it was every bit as frightened as he\nwas.  There was much laughter over this and the breathless earnestness\nwith which he told the story; but there was also a good deal of chaff,\nfor it seems to be generally accepted that you are not bound to believe\nall hunting stories; and Jim and his circus crocodile became the joke of\nthe camp.\n\nWe were spending a couple of days on the river bank to make the most of\nthe good water and grazing, and all through the day some one or other\nwould be out pottering about among the reeds, gun in hand, to keep the\npot full and have some fun, and although we laughed and chaffed about\nJim's experience, I fancy we were all very much on the look-out for\nrocks that looked like crocs and crocs that looked like rocks.\n\nOne of the most difficult lessons that a beginner has to learn is to\nkeep cool.  The keener you are the more likely you are to get excited\nand the more bitterly you feel the disappointments; and once you lose\nyour head, there is no mistake too stupid for you to make, and the\nresult is another good chance spoilt.  The great silent bush is so\nlonely; the strain of being on the look-out all the time is so great;\nthe uncertainty as to what may start up--anything from a partridge to a\nlion--is so trying that the beginner is wound up like an alarum clock\nand goes off at the first touch.  He is not fit to hit a haystack at\ntwenty yards; will fire without looking or aiming at all; jerk the rifle\nas he fires; forget to change the sight after the last shot; forget to\ncock his gun or move the safety catch; forget to load; forget to fire at\nall: nothing is impossible--nothing too silly.\n\nOn a later trip we had with us a man who was out for the first time, and\nwhen we came upon a troop of koodoo he started yelling, war-whooping and\nswearing at them, chasing them on foot and waving his rifle over his\nhead.  When we asked him why he, who was nearest to them, had not fired\na shot, all he could say was that he never remembered his rifle or\nanything else until they were gone.\n\nThese experiences had been mine, some of them many times, in spite of\nRocky's example and advice; and they were always followed by a fresh\nstock of good resolutions.\n\nI had started out this day with the same old determination to keep cool,\nbut, once into the reeds, Jim's account of how he had stepped on the\ncrocodile put all other thoughts out of my mind, and most of my\nattention was given to examining suspicious-looking rocks as we stole\nsilently and quietly along.\n\nJock was with me, as usual; I always took him out even then--not for\nhunting, because he was too young, but in order to train him.  He was\nstill only a puppy, about six months old, as well as I remember, and had\nnever tackled or even followed a wounded buck, so that it was impossible\nto say what he would do; he had seen me shoot a couple and had wanted to\nworry them as they fell; but that was all.  He was quite obedient and\nkept his place behind me; and, although he trembled with excitement when\nhe saw or heard anything, he never rushed in or moved ahead of me\nwithout permission.  The guinea-fowl tormented him that day; he could\nscent and hear them, and was constantly making little runs forward, half\ncrouching and with his nose back and tail dead level and his one ear\nfull-cocked and the other half-up.\n\nFor about half an hour we went on in this way.  There was plenty of\nfresh duiker spoor to show us that we were in a likely place, one spoor\nin particular being so fresh in the mud that it seemed only a few\nminutes old.  We were following this one very eagerly but very\ncautiously, and evidently Jock agreed with me that the duiker must be\nnear, for he took no more notice of the guinea-fowl; and I for my part\nforgot all about crocodiles and suspicious-looking rocks; there was at\nthat moment only one thing in the world for me, and that was the duiker.\nWe crept along noiselessly in and out of the reeds, round rocks and\nmudholes, across small stretches of firm mud or soft sand, so silently\nthat nothing could have heard us, and finally we came to a very big\nrock, with the duiker spoor fresher than ever going close round it down\nstream.  The rock was a long sloping one, polished smooth by the floods\nand very slippery to walk on.  I climbed it in dead silence, peering\ndown into the reeds and expecting every moment to see the duiker.\n\nThe slope up which we crept was long and easy, but that on the\ndown-stream side was much steeper.  I crawled up to the top on hands and\nknees, and raising myself slowly, looked carefully about, but no duiker\ncould be seen; yet Jock was sniffing and trembling more than ever, and\nit was quite clear that he thought we were very close up.  Seeing\nnothing in front or on either side, I stood right up and turned to look\nback the way we had come and examine the reeds on that side.  In doing\nso a few grains of grit crunched under my foot, and instantly there was\na rush in the reeds behind me; I jumped round to face it, believing that\nthe crocodile was grabbing at me from behind, and on the polished\nsurface of the rock my feet slipped and shot from under me, both bare\nelbows bumped hard on the rock, jerking the rifle out of my hands; and I\nwas launched like a torpedo right into the mass of swaying reeds.\n\nWhen you think you are tumbling on to a crocodile there is only one\nthing you want to do--get out as soon as possible.  How long it took to\nreach the top of the rock again, goodness only knows!  It seemed like a\nlife-time; but the fact is I was out of those reeds and up that rock in\ntime to see the duiker as it broke out of the reeds, raced up the bank,\nand disappeared into the bush with Jock tearing after it as hard as ever\nhe could go.\n\nOne call stopped him, and he came back to me looking very crestfallen\nand guilty, no doubt thinking that he had behaved badly and disgraced\nhimself.  But he was not to blame at all; he had known all along that\nthe duiker was there--having had no distracting fancies about\ncrocodiles--and when he saw it dash off and his master instantly jump in\nafter it, he must have thought that the hunt had at last begun and that\nhe was expected to help.\n\nAfter all that row and excitement there was not much use in trying for\nanything more in the reeds--and indeed I had had quite enough of them\nfor one afternoon; so we wandered along the upper banks in the hope of\nfinding something where there were no crocodiles, and it was not long\nbefore we were interested in something else and able to forget all about\nthe duiker.\n\nBefore we had been walking many minutes, Jock raised his head and ears\nand then lowered himself into a half crouching attitude and made a\nlittle run forward.  I looked promptly in the direction he was pointing\nand about two hundred yards away saw a stembuck standing in the shade of\na mimosa bush feeding briskly on the buffalo grass.  It was so small and\nin such bad light that the shot was too difficult for me at that\ndistance, and I crawled along behind bushes, ant-heaps and trees until\nwe were close enough for anything.  The ground was soft and sandy, and\nwe could get along easily enough without making any noise; but all the\ntime, whilst thinking how lucky it was to be on ground so soft for the\nhands and knees, and so easy to move on without being heard, something\nelse was happening.  With eyes fixed on the buck I did not notice that\nin crawling along on all-fours, the muzzle of the rifle dipped regularly\ninto the sand, picking up a little in the barrel each time.  There was\nnot enough to burst the rifle, but the effect was surprising.  Following\non a painfully careful aim, there was a deafening report that made my\nhead reel and buzz; the kick of the rifle on the shoulder and cheek left\nme blue for days; and when my eyes were clear enough to see anything the\nstembuck had disappeared.\n\nI was too disgusted to move, and sat in the sand rubbing my shoulder and\nthanking my stars that the rifle had not burst.  There was plenty to\nthink about, to be sure, and no hurry to do anything else, for the noise\nof the shot must have startled every living thing for a mile round.\n\nIt is not always easy to tell the direction from which a report comes\nwhen you are near a river or in broken country or patchy bush; and it is\nnot an uncommon thing to find that a shot which has frightened one\nanimal away from you has startled another and driven it towards you; and\nthat is what happened in this case.  As I sat in the shade of the thorns\nwith the loaded rifle across my knees there was the faint sound of a\nbuck cantering along in the sand; I looked up; and only about twenty\nyards from me a duiker came to a stop, half fronting me.  There it stood\nlooking back over its shoulder and listening intently, evidently\nthinking that the danger lay behind it.  It was hardly possible to miss\nthat; and as the duiker rolled over, I dropped my rifle and ran to make\nsure of it.\n\nOf course, it was dead against the rules to leave the rifle behind; but\nit was simply a case of excitement again: when the buck rolled over\neverything else was forgotten!  I knew the rule perfectly well--Reload\nat once and never part with your gun.  It was one of Rocky's lessons,\nand only a few weeks before this, when out for an afternoon's shooting\nwith an old hunter, the lesson had been repeated.  The old man shot a\nrietbuck ram, and as it had been facing us and dropped without a kick we\nboth thought that it was shot through the brain.  There was no mark on\nthe head, however, and although we examined it carefully, we failed to\nfind the bullet-mark or a trace of blood; so we put our rifles down to\nsettle the question by skinning the buck.  After sawing at the neck for\nhalf a minute, however, the old man found his knife too blunt to make an\nopening, and we both hunted about for a stone to sharpen it on, and\nwhile we were fossicking about in the grass there was a noise behind,\nand looking sharply round we saw the buck scramble to its feet and\nscamper off before we had time to move.  The bullet must have touched\none of its horns and stunned it.  My companion was too old a hunter to\nget excited, and while I ran for the rifles and wanted to chase the buck\non foot he stood quite still, gently rubbing the knife on the stone he\nhad picked up.  Looking at me under bushy eyebrows and smiling\nphilosophically, he said:\n\n\"That's something for you to remember, Boy.  It's my belief if you lived\nfor ever there'd always be something to learn at this game.\"\n\nUnfortunately I did not remember when it would have been useful.  As I\nran forward the duiker tumbled, struggled and rolled over and over, then\ngot up and made a dash, only to dive head foremost into the sand and\nsomersault over; but in a second it was up again and racing off, again\nto trip and plunge forward on to its chest with its nose outstretched\nsliding along the soft ground.  The bullet had struck it in the\nshoulder, and the broken leg was tripping it and bringing it down; but,\nin far less time than it takes to tell it, the little fellow found out\nwhat was wrong, and scrambling once more to its feet was off on three\nlegs at a pace that left me far behind.  Jock, remembering the mistake\nin the reeds, kept his place behind, and I in the excitement of the\nmoment neither saw nor thought of him until the duiker, gaining at every\njump, looked like vanishing for ever.  Then I remembered and, with a\nfrantic wave of my hand, shouted, \"After him, Jock.\"\n\nHe was gone before my hand was down, and faster than I had ever seen him\nmove, leaving me ploughing through the heavy sand far behind.  Past the\nbig bush I saw them again, and there the duiker did as wounded game so\noften do: taking advantage of cover it changed direction and turned away\nfor some dense thorns.  But that suited Jock exactly; he took the short\ncut across to head it off and was close up in a few more strides.  He\ncaught up to it, raced up beside it, and made a jump at its throat; but\nthe duiker darted away in a fresh direction, leaving him yards behind.\nAgain he was after it and tried the other side; but the buck was too\nquick, and again he missed and overshot the mark in his jump.  He was in\nsuch deadly earnest he seemed to turn in the air to get back again and\nonce more was close up--so close that I the flying heels of the buck\nseemed to pass each side of his ears; then he made his spring from\nbehind, catching the duiker high up on one hind leg, and the two rolled\nover together, kicking and struggling in a cloud of dust.  Time after\ntime the duiker got on its feet, trying to get at him with its horns or\nto break away again; but Jock, although swung off his feet and rolled\non, did not let go his grip.  In grim silence he hung on while the\nduiker plunged, and, when it fell, tugged and worried as if to shake the\nlife out of it.\n\nWhat with the hot sun, the heavy sand, and the pace at which we had\ngone, I was so pumped that I finished the last hundred yards at a walk,\nand had plenty of time to see what was going on; but even when I got up\nto them the struggle was so fierce and the movements so quick that for\nsome time it was not possible to get hold of the duiker to finish it\noff.  At last came one particularly bad fall, when the buck rolled over\non its back, and then Jock let go his grip and made a dash for its\nthroat; but again the duiker was too quick for him; with one twist it\nwas up and round facing him on its one knee, and dug, thrust, and swept\nwith its black spiky horns so vigorously that it was impossible to get\nat its neck.  As Jock rushed in the head ducked and the horns flashed\nround so swiftly that it seemed as if nothing could save him from being\nstabbed through and through, but his quickness and cleverness were a\nrevelation to me.  If he could not catch the duiker, it could not catch\nhim: they were in a way too quick for each other, and they were a long\nway too quick for me.\n\nTime after time I tried to get in close enough to grab one of the buck's\nhind legs, but it was not to be caught.  While Jock was at it fast and\nfurious in front, I tried to creep up quietly behind--but it was no use:\nthe duiker kept facing Jock with horns down, and whenever I moved it\nswung round and kept me in front also.  Finally I tried a run straight\nin; and then it made another dash for liberty.  On three legs, however,\nit had no chance, and in another minute Jock had it again, and down they\ncame together, rolling over and over once more.  The duiker struggled\nhard, but he hung on, and each time it got its feet to the ground to\nrise he would tug sideways and roll it over again, until I got up to\nthem, and catching the buck by the head, held it down with my knee on\nits neck and my Bushman's Friend in hand to finish it.\n\nThere was, however, still another lesson for us both to learn that day;\nneither of us knew what a buck can do with its hind feet when it is\ndown.  The duiker was flat on its side; Jock, thinking the fight was\nover, had let go; and, before I could move the supple body doubled up,\nand the feet whizzed viciously at me right over its head.  The little\npointed cloven feet are as hard and sharp as horns and will tear the\nflesh like claws.  By good luck the kick only grazed my arm, but\nalthough the touch was the lightest it cut the skin and little beads of\nblood shot up marking the line like the scratch of a thorn.  Missing my\narm the hoof struck full on the handle of the Bushman's Friend and sent\nit flying yards out of reach.  And it was not merely one kick: faster\nthan the eye could follow them the little feet whizzed and the legs\nseemed to buzz round like the spokes of a wheel.  Holding the horns at\narm's length in order to dodge the kicks, I tried to pull the duiker\ntowards the knife; but it was too much for me, and with a sudden twist\nand a wrench freed itself and was off again.\n\nAll the time Jock was moving round and round panting and licking his\nchops, stepping in and stepping back, giving anxious little whimpers,\nand longing to be at it again, but not daring to join in without\npermission.  When the duiker broke away, however, he waited for nothing,\nand was on to it in one spring--again from behind; and this time he let\ngo as it fell, and jumping free of it, had it by the throat before it\ncould rise.  I ran to them again, but the picking up of the knife had\ndelayed me and I was not in time to save Jock the same lesson that the\nduiker had just taught me.\n\nDown on its side, with Jock's jaws locked in its throat, once more the\nduiker doubled up and used its feet.  The first kick went over his head\nand scraped harmlessly along his back; but the second caught him at the\npoint of the shoulder, and the razor-like toe ripped his side right to\nthe hip.  Then the dog showed his pluck and cleverness.  His side was\ncut open as if it had been slashed by a knife, but he never flinched or\nloosened his grip for a second; he seemed to go at it more furiously\nthan ever, but more cleverly and warily.  He swung his body round clear\nof the whizzing feet, watching them with his little beady eyes fixed\nsideways and the gleaming whites showing in the corners; he tugged away\nincessantly and vigorously, keeping the buck's neck stretched out and\npulling it round in a circle backwards so that it could not possibly\ndouble its body up enough to kick him again; and before I could catch\nthe feet to help him, the kicks grew weaker; the buck slackened out, and\nJock had won.\n\nThe sun was hot, the sand was deep, and the rifle was hard to find; it\nwas a long way back to the waggons, and the duiker made a heavy load;\nbut the end of that first chase seemed so good that nothing else\nmattered.  The only thing I did mind was the open cut on Jock's side;\nbut he minded nothing: his tail was going like a telegraph needle; he\nwas panting with his mouth open from ear to ear, and his red tongue\nhanging out and making great slapping licks at his chops from time to\ntime; he was not still for a second, but kept walking in and stepping\nback in a circle round the duiker, and looking up at me and then down at\nit, as if he was not at all sure that there might not be some fresh game\non, and was consulting me as to whether it would not be a good thing to\nhave another go in and make it all safe.\n\nHe was just as happy as a dog could be, and perhaps he was proud of the\nwound that left a straight line from his shoulder to his hip and showed\nup like a cord under the golden brindle as long as he lived--a memento\nof his first real hunt.\n\n\nCHAPTER SEVEN.\n\nIN THE HEART OF THE BUSH.\n\nWhen the hen pecked Jock on the nose, she gave him a useful lesson in\nthe art of finding out what you want to know without getting into\ntrouble.  As he got older, he also learned that there are only certain\nthings which concerned him and which it was necessary for him to know.\nA young dog begins by thinking that he can do everything, go everywhere,\nand know everything; and a hunting dog has to learn to mind his own\nbusiness, as well as to understand it.  Some dogs turn sulky or timid or\nstupid when they are checked, but an intelligent dog with a stout heart\nwill learn little by little to leave other things alone, and grow\nsteadily keener on his own work.  There was no mistake about Jock's\nkeenness.  When I took down the rifle from the waggon he did not go off\ninto ecstasies of barking, as most sporting dogs will do, but would give\na quick look up and with an eager little run towards me give a whimper\nof joy, make two or three bounds as if wanting to stretch his muscles\nand loosen his joints, then shake himself vigorously as though he had\njust come out of the water, and with a soft suppressed \"Woo-woo-woo\"\nfull of contentment, drop silently into his place at my heels and give\nhis whole attention to his work.\n\nHe was the best of companions, and through the years that we hunted\ntogether I never tired of watching him.  There was always something to\nlearn, something to admire, something to be grateful for, and very often\nsomething to laugh at--in the way in which we laugh only at those whom\nwe are fond of.  It was the struggle between Jock's intense keenness and\nhis sense of duty that most often raised the laugh.  He knew that his\nplace was behind me; but probably he also knew that nine times out of\nten he scented or saw the game long before I knew there was anything\nnear, and naturally wanted to be in front or at least abreast of me to\nshow me whatever there was to be seen.\n\nHe noticed, just as surely and as quickly as any human being could, any\nchange in my manner: nothing escaped him, for his eyes and ears were on\nthe move the whole time.  It was impossible for me to look for more than\na few seconds in any one direction, or to stop or even to turn my head\nto listen, without being caught by him.  His bright brown eyes were\neverlastingly on the watch and on the move: from me to the bush, from\nthe bush back to me.  When we were after game, and he could scent or see\nit, he would keep a foot or two to the side of me so as to have a clear\nview; and when he knew by my manner that I thought there was game near,\nhe kept so close up that he would often bump against my heels as I\nwalked, or run right into my legs if I stopped suddenly.  Often when\nstalking buck very quietly and cautiously, thinking only of what was in\nfront, I would get quite a start by feeling something bump up against me\nbehind.  At these times it was impossible to say anything without risk\nof scaring the game, and I got into the habit of making signs with my\nhand which he understood quite as well.\n\nSometimes after having crawled up I would be in the act of aiming when\nhe would press up against me.  Nothing puts one off so much as a touch\nor the expectation of being jogged when in the act of firing, and I used\nto get angry with him then, but dared not breathe a word; I would lower\nmy head slowly, turn round, and give him a look.  He knew quite well\nwhat it meant.  Down would go his ears instantly, and he would back away\nfrom me a couple of steps, drop his stump of a tail and wag it in a\nfeeble deprecating way, and open his mouth into a sort of foolish laugh.\nThat was his apology!  \"I beg your pardon: it was an accident!  I won't\ndo it again.\"\n\nIt was quite impossible to be angry with him, he was so keen and he\nmeant so well; and when he saw me laughing softly at him, he would come\nup again close to me, cock his tail a few inches higher and wag it a bit\nfaster.\n\nThere is a deal of expression in a dog's tail: it will generally tell\nyou what his feelings are.  My friend maintained that that was how he\nknew his old dog was enjoying the joke against the cockerel; and that is\ncertainly how I knew what Jock was thinking about once when lost in the\nveld; and it showed me the way back.\n\nIt is easy enough to lose oneself in the Bushveld.  The Berg stands up\nsome thousands of feet inland on the west, looking as if it had been put\nthere to hold up the High veld; and between the foothills and the sea\nlies the Bushveld, stretching for hundreds of miles north and south.\nFrom the height and distance of the Berg it looks as flat as the floor,\nbut in many parts it is very much cut up by deep rough dongas, sharp\nrises and depressions, and numbers of small kopjes.  Still, it has a way\nof looking flat, because the hills are small, and very much alike; and\nbecause hill and hollow are covered and hidden mile after mile by small\ntrees of a wonderful sameness, just near enough together to prevent you\nfrom seeing more than a few hundred yards at a time.  Most people see no\ndifferences in sheep: many believe that all Chinamen are exactly alike;\nand so it is with the Bushveld: you have to know it first.\n\nSo far I had never lost my way out hunting.  The experiences of other\nmen and the warnings from the old hands had made me very careful.  We\nwere always hearing of men being lost through leaving the road and\nfollowing up the game while they were excited, without noticing which\nway they went and how long they had been going.  There were no beaten\ntracks and very few landmarks, so that even experienced hunters went\nastray sometimes for a few hours or a day or two when the mists or heavy\nrains came on and nothing could be seen beyond fifty or a hundred yards.\n\nNearly every one who goes hunting in the Bushveld gets lost some time or\nother--generally in the beginning before he has learned to notice\nthings.  Some have been lost for many days until they blundered on to a\ntrack by accident or were found by a search-party; others have been lost\nand, finding no water or food, have died; others have been killed by\nlions, and only a boot or a coat--or, as it happened in one case that I\nknow of, a ring found inside a lion--told what had occurred; others have\nbeen lost and nothing more ever heard of them.  There is no feeling\nquite like that of being lost--helplessness, terror, and despair!  The\nhorror of it is so great that every beginner has it before him; every\none has heard of it, thought of it, and dreamed of it, and every one\nfeels it holding him to the beaten track, as the fear of drowning keeps\nthose who cannot swim to shallow water.  That is just in the beginning.\nPresently, when little excursions, each bolder than the previous, have\nended without accident, the fear grows less and confidence develops.\nThen it is, as a rule, that the accident comes and the lesson is\nlearned, if you are lucky enough to pull through.\n\nWhen the camp is away in the trackless bush, it needs a good man always\nto find the way home after a couple of hours' chase with all its twists\nand turns and doublings; but when camp is made on a known road--a long\nmain road that strikes a fair line between two points of the compass--it\nseems impossible for any one to be hopelessly lost.  If the road runs\neast and west you, knowing on which side you left it, have only to walk\nnorth or south steadily and you must strike it again.  The old hands\ntold the beginners this, and we were glad to know that it was only a\nmatter of walking for a few hours, more or less, and that in the end we\nwere bound to find the road and strike some camp.  \"Yes,\" said the old\nhands, \"it is simple enough here where you have a road running east and\nwest; there is only one rule to remember: When you have lost your way,\ndon't lose your head.\"  But indeed that is just the one rule that you\nare quite unable to observe.\n\nMany stories have been told of men being lost: many volumes could be\nfilled with them for the trouble of writing down what any hunter will\ntell you.  But no one who has not seen it can realise how the thing may\nhappen; no one would believe the effect that the terror of being lost,\nand the demoralisation which it causes, can have on a sane man's senses.\nIf you want to know what a man can persuade himself to believe against\nthe evidence of his senses--even when his very life depends upon his\nholding to the absolute truth--then you should see a man who is lost in\nthe bush.  He knows that he left the road on the north side; she loses\nhis bearings; he does not know how long how fat, or how far he has\nwalked; yet if he keep his head he will make due south and must\ninevitably strike the road.  After going for half an hour and seeing\nnothing familiar, he begins to feel that he is going in the wrong\ndirection; something pulls at him to face right about.  Only a few\nminutes more of this, and he feels sure that he must have crossed the\nroad without noticing it, and therefore that he ought to be going north\ninstead of south, if he hopes ever to strike it again.  How, you will\nask, can a man imagine impossible to cross a big dusty road twenty or\nthirty feet wide without seeing it?  The idea seems absurd; yet they do\nreally believe it.  One of the first illusions that occurs to men when\nthey lose their heads is that they have done this, and it is the cause\nof scores of cases of `lost in the bush.'  The idea that they may have\ndone it is absurd enough; but stranger still is the fact that they\nactually _do_ it.\n\nIf you cannot understand a man thinking he had done such a thing, what\ncan you say of a man actually doing it?  Impossible, quite impossible,\nyou think.  Ah! but it is a fact: many know it for a fact and I have\nwitnessed it twice myself, once in Mashonaland and once on the Delagoa\nroad.  I saw men, tired, haggard and wild-eyed, staring far in front of\nthem, never looking at the ground, pressing on, on, on, and actually\ncross well-worn waggon roads, coming from hard veld into a sandy\nwheel-worn track and kicking up a cloud of dust as they passed, and\nutterly blind to the fact that they were walking across the roads they\nhad been searching for--in one case for ten hours, and in the other for\nthree days.  When we called to them they had already crossed and were\ndisappearing again into the bush.  In both cases the sound of the human\nvoice and the relief of being `found,' made them collapse.  The knees\nseemed to give way: they could not remain standing.  The man who loses\nhis head is really lost.  He cannot think, remember, reason, or\nunderstand; and the strangest thing of all is that he often cannot even\n_see_ properly--he fails to see the very things that he most wants to\nsee, even when they are as large as life before him.  Crossing the road\nwithout seeing it is not the only or the most extraordinary example of\nthis sort of thing.  We were out hunting once in a mounted party, but to\nspare a tired horse I went on foot and took up my stand in a game run\namong some thorn-trees on the low spur of a hill, while the others made\na big circuit to head off a troop of koodoo.  Among our party there was\none who was very nervous: he had been lost once for six or eight hours,\nand being haunted by the dread of being lost again, his nerve was all\ngone and he would not go fifty yards without a companion.  In the\nexcitement of shooting at and galloping after the koodoo probably this\ndread was forgotten for a moment: he himself could not tell how it\nhappened that he became separated, and no one else had noticed him.\n\nThe strip of wood along the hills in which I was waiting was four or\nfive miles long but only from one to three hundred yards wide, a mere\nfringe enclosing the little range of kopjes; and between the stems of\nthe trees I could see our camp and waggons in the open a quarter of a\nmile away.  Ten or twelve shots faintly heard in the distance told me\nthat the others were on to the koodoo, and knowing the preference of\nthose animals for the bush I took cover behind a big stump and waited.\nFor over half an hour, however, nothing came towards me, and believing\nthen that the game had broken off another way, I was about to return to\ncamp when I heard the tapping of galloping feet a long way off.  In a\nfew minutes the hard thud and occasional ring on the ground told that it\nwas not the koodoo; and soon afterwards I saw a man on horseback.  He\nwas leaning eagerly forward and thumping the exhausted horse with his\nrifle and his heels to keep up its staggering gallop.  I looked about\nquickly to see what it was he was chasing that could have slipped past\nme unnoticed, but there was nothing; then thinking there had been an\naccident and he was coming for help, I stepped out into the open and\nwaited for him to come up.  I stood quite still, and he galloped past\nwithin ten yards of me--so close that his muttered \"Get on, you brute;\nget on, get on!\" as he thumped away at his poor tired horse, were\nperfectly audible.\n\n\"What's up, sportsman?\"  I asked, no louder than you would say it across\na tennis-court; but the words brought him up, white-faced and terrified,\nand he half slid, half tumbled, off the horse gasping out, \"I was lost,\nI was lost!\"  How he had managed to keep within that strip of bush,\nwithout once getting into the open where he would have seen the line of\nkopjes to which I had told him to stick or could have seen the waggons\nand the smoke of the big camp fire, he could never explain.  I turned\nhim round where he stood, and through the trees showed him the white\ntents of the waggons and the cattle grazing near by, but he was too\ndazed to understand or explain anything.\n\nThere are many kinds of men.  That particular kind is not the kind that\nwill ever do for veld life: they are for other things and other work.\nYou will laugh at them at times--when the absurdity is greatest and no\nharm has been done.  But see it!  See it--and realise the suspense, the\nstrain, and the terror; and then even the funniest incident has another\nside to it.  See it once; and recall that the worst of endings have had\njust such beginnings.  See it in the most absurd and farcical\ncircumstances ever known; and laugh--laugh your fill; laugh at the\nvictim and laugh with him, when it is over--and safe.  But in the end\nwill come the little chilling thought that the strongest, the bravest,\nand the best have known something of it too; and that even to those\nwhose courage holds to the last breath there may come a moment when the\npulse beats a little faster and the judgment is at fault.\n\nBuggins who was with us in the first season was no hunter, but he was a\ngood shot and not a bad fellow.  In his case there was no tragedy; there\nwas much laughter and--to me--a wonderful revelation.  He showed us, as\nin a play, how you can be lost; how you can walk for ever in one little\ncircle, as though drawn to a centre by magnetic force, and how you can\nmiss seeing things in the bush if they do not move.\n\nWe had outspanned in a flat covered with close grass about two feet high\nand shady flat-topped thorn trees.  The waggons, four in number, were\ndrawn up a few yards off the road, two abreast.  The grass was sweet and\nplentiful; the day was hot and still; and as we had had a very long\nearly morning trek there was not much inclination to move.  The cattle\nsoon filled themselves and lay down to sleep; the boys did the same; and\nwe, when breakfast was over, got into the shade of the waggons, some to\nsleep and others to smoke.\n\nBuggins--that was his pet name--was a passenger returning to \"England,\nHome, and Beauty\"--that is to say, literally, to a comfortable home,\nadmiring sisters and a rich indulgent father--after having sought his\nfortune unsuccessfully on the goldfields for fully four months.  Buggins\nwas good-natured, unselfish, and credulous; but he had one fault--he\n`yapped': he talked until our heads buzzed.  He used to sleep\ncontentedly in a rumpled tarpaulin all through the night treks and come\nup fresh as a daisy and full of accumulated chat at the morning outspan,\njust when we--unless work or sport called for us--were wanting to get\nsome sleep.\n\nWe knew well enough what to expect, so after breakfast Jimmy, who\nunderstood Buggins well, told him pleasantly that he could \"sleep,\nshoot, or shut up.\"  To shut up was impossible, and to sleep again--\nwithout a rest--difficult, even for Buggins; so with a good-natured\nlaugh he took the shot gun, saying that he \"would potter around a bit\nand give us a treat.\"  Well, he did!\n\nWe had outspanned on the edge of an open space in the thorn bush; there\nare plenty of them to be found in the Bushveld--spaces a few hundred\nyards in diameter, like open park land, where not a single tree breaks\nthe expanse of wavy yellow grass.  The waggons with their greyish tents\nand buck-sails and dusty wood-work stood in the fringe of the trees\nwhere this little arena touched the road, and into it sallied Buggins,\ngently drawn by the benevolent purpose of giving us a treat.  What he\nhoped to find in the open on that sweltering day he only could tell; we\nknew that no living thing but lizards would be out of the shade just\nthen, but we wanted to find him employment harmless to him and us.\n\nHe had been gone for more than half an hour when we heard a shot, and a\nfew minutes later Jimmy's voice roused us.\n\n\"What the dickens is Buggins doing?\" he asked in a tone so puzzled and\ninterested that we all turned to watch that sportsman.  According to\nJimmy, he had been walking about in an erratic way for some time on the\nfar side of the open ground--going from the one end to the other and\nthen back again; then disappearing for a few minutes in the bush and\nre-appearing to again manoeuvre in the open in loops and circles, angles\nand straight lines.  Now he was walking about at a smart pace, looking\nfrom side to side apparently searching for something.  We could see the\nwhole of the arena as clearly as you can see a cricket-field from the\nrailings--for our waggon formed part of the boundary--but we could see\nnothing to explain Buggins's manoeuvres.  Next we saw him face the\nthorns opposite, raise his gun very deliberately, and fire into the top\nof the trees.\n\n\"Green pigeons,\" said Jimmy firmly; and we all agreed that Buggins was\nafter specimens for stuffing; but either our guess was wrong or his aim\nwas bad, for after standing dead still for a minute he resumed his\nvigorous walk.  By this time Buggins fairly fascinated us; even the\nkaffirs had roused each other and were watching him.  Away he went at\nonce off to our left, and there he repeated the performance, but, again\nmade no attempt to pick up anything and showed no further interest in\nwhatever it was he had fired at, but turned right about face and walked\nacross the open ground in our direction until he was only a couple of\nhundred yards away.  There he stopped and began to look about him and\nmaking off some few yards in another direction climbed on to a\nfair-sized ant-heap five or six feet high, and balancing himself\ncautiously on this he deliberately fired off both barrels in quick\nsuccession.  Then the same idea struck us all together, and \"Buggins is\nlost\" came from several--all choking with laughter.\n\nJimmy got up and, stepping out into the open beside the waggon, called,\n\"Say, Buggins, what in thunder _are_ you doing?\"\n\nTo see Buggins slide off the ant-heap and shuffle shamefacedly back to\nthe waggon before a gallery of four white men and a lot of kaffirs, all\ncracking and crying with laughter, was a sight never to be forgotten.\n\nI did not want to get lost and be eaten alive, or even look ridiculous,\nso I began very carefully: glanced back regularly to see what the track,\ntrees, rocks, or kopjes looked like from the other side; carefully noted\nwhich side of the road I had turned off; and always kept my eye on the\nsun.  But day after day and month after month went by without accident\nor serious difficulty, and then the same old thing happened: familiarity\nbred contempt, and I got the beginner's complaint, conceit fever, just\nas others did: thought I was rather a fine fellow, not like other chaps\nwho always have doubts and difficulties in finding their way back, but\nsomething exceptional with the real instinct in me which hunters,\nnatives, and many animals are supposed to have; though, in fact, I could\nnot get lost.  So each day I went further and more boldly off the road,\nand grew more confident and careless.\n\nThe very last thing that would have occurred to me on this particular\nday was that there was any chance of being lost or any need to take note\nof where we went.  For many weeks we had been hunting in exactly the\nsame sort of country, but not of course in the same part; and the truth\nis I did not give the matter a thought at all, but went ahead as one\ndoes with the things that are done every day as matters of habit.\n\n\nCHAPTER EIGHT.\n\nLOST IN THE VELD.\n\nWe were outspanned near some deep shaded water-holes, and at about three\no'clock I took my rifle and wandered off in the hope of dropping across\nsomething for the larder and having some sport during the three hours\nbefore the evening trek would begin; and as there was plenty of spoor of\nmany kinds the prospects seemed good enough.\n\nWe had been going along slowly, it may be for half an hour, without\nseeing more than a little stembuck scurrying away in the distance, when\nI noticed that Jock was rather busy with his nose, sniffing about in a\nway that looked like business.  He was not sure of anything; that was\nclear, because he kept trying in different directions; not as you see a\npointer do, but very seriously silently and slowly, moving at a cautious\nwalk for a few yards and then taking a look about.\n\nThe day was hot and still, as usual at that time of the year, and any\nnoise would be easily heard, so I had stopped to give Jock a chance of\nranging about.  At the moment we were in rather open ground, and finding\nthat Jock was still very suspicious I moved on towards where the bush\nwas thicker and we were less likely to be seen from a distance.  As we\ngot near the better cover there was a rasping, squawky cry in a\ncockatoo's voice, \"Go 'way; go 'way; go' way!\" and one of those ugly\nbig-beaked Go 'way birds came sailing up from behind and flapped on to\nthe trees we were making for.  No doubt they have another name, but in\nthe Bushveld they were known as Go 'way birds, because of this cry and\nbecause they are supposed to warn the game when an enemy is coming.  But\nthey are not like the tick bird or the rhinoceros bird, who stick close\nto their friends and as soon as they see or hear anything suspicious\nflutter straight up filling the air with twittering cries of alarm; the\nGo 'way birds do not feed on ticks and have nothing to do with the game;\nyou find them where there is no game, and it always seemed to me that it\nis not concern for the game at all, but simply a combination of vulgar\ncuriosity, disagreeableness and bad manners, that makes them interfere\nas they do.\n\nThe reason why I do not believe the Go 'way birds care a rap about the\ngame and only want to worry you is that often one of them will make up\nits mind to stick to you, and you can turn twist and double as many ways\nas you like, but as soon as you begin to walk on again the wretched\nthing will fly over your head and perch twenty yards or so in front of\nyou, screeching out \"Go 'way\" at the top of its voice.  There it will\nsit ready to fly off again as you come on, its ugly head on one side and\nbig hooked bill like an aggressive nose, watching you mercilessly, as\nvigilant as a hungry fowl and as cross as a tired nurse in a big family.\nThey seem to know that you cannot shoot them without making more row\nand doing more harm than they do.\n\nI stood still for a few minutes to give this one a chance to fly away,\nand when it would not do so, but kept on screeching and craning its neck\nat me, I threw a stone at it.  It ducked violently and gave a choking\nhysterical squawk of alarm and anger as the stone whizzed close to its\nhead; then flying on to another tree a few yards off, screamed away more\nnoisily than ever.  Evidently the best thing to do was to go ahead\ntaking no notice of the creature and trusting that it would tire and\nleave me alone; so I walked off briskly.\n\nThere was a slight rustling in the bush ahead of us as I stepped out,\nand then the sound of feet.  I made a dash for the chance of a running\nshot, but it was too late, and all we saw was half a dozen beautiful\nkoodoo disappearing among the tree stems.\n\nI turned towards that Go 'way bird.  Perhaps he did not like the look on\nmy face or the way I held the rifle; for he gave one more snarling\nshriek, as if he was emptying himself for ever of his rage and spite,\nand flapped away.\n\nJock was standing like a statue, leaning slightly forward but with head\nvery erect, jaws tightly closed, and eyes looking straight in front, as\nbright as black diamonds.\n\nIt was a bad disappointment; for that was the first time we had fairly\nand squarely come upon koodoo.  However, it was still early and the game\nhad not been scared, but had gone off quietly; so hoping for another\nchance we started off at a trot along the fresh spoor.\n\nA big koodoo bull stands as high as a bullock, and although they have\nthe small shapely feet of an antelope the spoor is heavy enough to\nfollow at a trot except on stony ground.  Perhaps they know this, for\nthey certainly prefer the rough hard ground when they can get it.  We\nwent along at a good pace, but with many short breaks to make sure of\nthe spoor in the stony parts; and it was pretty hot work, although\nclothing was light for hunting.  A rough flannel shirt, open at the\nthroat, and moleskin trousers dyed with coffee--for khaki was unknown to\nus then--was the usual wear; and we carried as little as possible.\nGenerally a water-bottle filled with unsweetened cold tea and a\ncartridge belt were all we took besides the rifle.  This time I had less\nthan usual.  Meaning to be out only for a couple of hours at most and to\nstick close to the road, I had pocketed half a dozen cartridges and left\nboth bandolier and water-bottle behind.\n\nIt was not long before we came upon the koodoo again; but they were on\nthe watch.  They were standing in the fringe of some thick bush,\nbroadside on but looking back full at us, and as soon as I stopped to\naim the whole lot disappeared with the same easy movement, just melting\naway in the bush.\n\nIf I had only known it, it was a hopeless chase for an inexperienced\nhunter: they were simply playing with me.  The very things that seemed\nso encouraging to me would have warned an old hand that running on the\ntrail was quite useless.  When they moved off quietly, it was not\nbecause they were foolhardy or did not realise the danger.  When they\nallowed us to catch up to them time after time, it was not because they\ndid not expect us.  When they stood on the edge of thick bush where we\ncould see them, it was not stupidity.  When they could disappear with an\neasy bound, it was not accident.  It was all part of the game.  They\nwere keeping in touch with us so that we could not surprise them, and\nwhenever they stopped it was always where they could see us coming\nthrough the thinner bush for a long way and where they themselves could\ndisappear in the thick bush in a couple of strides.  Moreover, with each\nfresh run they changed their direction with the object of making it\ndifficult for us to follow them up, and with the deliberate purpose of\neventually reaching some favourite and safe haunt of theirs.\n\nAn old hand might have known this; but a beginner goes blindly along the\nspoor--exactly where they are expecting him.  The chase was long and\ntiring, but there was no feeling of disappointment and no thought of\ngiving it up: each time they came in sight we got keener and more\nexcited, and the end seemed nearer and more certain.  I knew what the\nsix animals were--four cows, one young bull, and a magnificent old\nfellow with a glorious head and great spiral horns.  I carried his\npicture in my eye and could pick him out instantly wherever he stood and\nhowever motionless; for, incredibly difficult as it is to pick out still\nobjects in the bush before your eye becomes accustomed to it, it is\nwonderful what you can do when your eye is in and you are cool and\nintent and know what you are looking for.  I had the old bull marked\ndown as mine, and knew his every detail--his splendid bearing, strong\nshaggy neck with mane to the withers and bearded throat, the soft grey\ndove-colour of the coat with its white stripes, the easy balancing\nmovement in carrying the massive horns as he cantered away, and the\ntrick of throwing them back to glide them through the bush.\n\nThe last run was a long and hard one; and the koodoo seemed to have\ntaken matters seriously and made up their minds to put a safe distance\nbetween us and them.  The spooring was often difficult and the pace hot.\nI was wet through from the hard work, and so winded that further effort\nseemed almost impossible; but we plodded away--the picture of the koodoo\nbull luring me on, and Jock content with any chase.  Without him the\nspoor would have been lost long before; it was in many places too faint\nand scattered for me to follow, but he would sniff about quietly, and,\nby his contented looks back at me and brisk wagging of that stumpy tail,\nshow that he was on it again, and off we would go on another tired\nstraggling trot.  But at last even his help was not enough: we had come\nto the end of the chase, and not a spoor, scratch, or sign of any sort\nwas to be seen.\n\nTime had passed unnoticed, and it was only when it became clear that\nfurther search would be quite useless that I looked at my watch and\nfound it was nearly five o'clock.  That was rather a shock, for it\nseemed reasonable to think that, as we had been out for pretty nearly\ntwo hours and going fast for most of the time, it would take almost as\nlong to get back again.\n\nI had not once noticed our direction or looked at the sun, yet when it\ncame to making for camp again the idea of losing the way never occurred\nto me.  I had not the slightest doubt about the way we had come, and it\nseemed the natural thing to go back the same way.\n\nA short distance from where we finally gave up the chase there was a\nrise crowned by some good-sized rocks and bare of trees; it was not high\nenough to be fairly called a kopje, but I climbed it on chance of\ngetting a view of the surrounding country--to see, if possible, how far\nwe had come.  The rise was not sufficient, however, to give a view;\nthere was nothing to be seen, and I sat down on the highest rock to rest\nfor a few minutes and smoke a cigarette.\n\nIt is over twenty years since that day, but that cigarette is not\nforgotten, and the little rise where we rested is still, to me,\nCigarette Kopje.  I was so thoroughly wet from the heat and hard work\nthat the matches in the breast pocket of my shirt were all damp, and the\nheads came off most of them before one was gently coaxed into giving a\nlight.  Five minutes rest was enough.  We both wanted a drink, but there\nwas no time then to hunt for water in such a dry part as that, so off we\nstarted for camp and jogged along for a good time, perhaps half an hour.\nThen little by little I began to feel some uncertainty about the way\nand to look about from side to side for reminders.\n\nThe start back had been easy enough: that part of the ground where we\nhad lost the spoor had been gone over very thoroughly and every object\nwas familiar; but further back, where we had followed the spoor at a\ntrot for long stretches and I had hardly raised my eyes from the ground\nbefore me, it was a very different matter.  I forgot all about those\nlong stretches in which nothing had been noticed except the koodoo\nspoor, and was unconsciously looking out for things in regular\nsuccession which we had passed at quite long intervals.  Of course, they\nwere not to be found, but I kept on looking out for them--first feeling\nannoyed, then puzzled, then worried.  Something had gone wrong, and we\nwere not going back on our old tracks.  Several times I looked about for\nthe koodoo spoor as a guide; but it might be anywhere over a width of a\nhundred yards, and it seemed waste of precious time to search the dry\ngrass-grown and leaf-strewn ground for that.\n\nAt the first puzzled stop I tried to recall some of the more noticeable\nthings we had passed during the chase.  There were two flat-topped\nmimosas, looking like great rustic tables on a lawn, and we had passed\nbetween them; there was a large ant-heap, with a twisty top like a\ncrooked mud chimney, behind which the koodoo bull had calmly stood\nwatching us approach; then a marula tree with a fork like a giant\ncatapult stick; and so on with a score of other things, all coming\nreadily to mind.\n\nThat was what put me hopelessly wrong.  I began to look for particular\nobjects instead of taking one direction and keeping to it.  Whenever a\nflat-topped thorn, a quaint ant-heap, a patch of tambookie grass, or a\nforked marula came in sight, I would turn off to see if they were the\nsame we had passed coming out.  It was hopeless folly, of course; for in\nthat country there were hundreds and thousands of such things all\nlooking very much alike, and you could walk yourself to death zigzagging\nabout from one to another and never get any nearer home: when it comes\nto doing that sort of thing your judgment is gone and you have lost your\nhead; and the worst of it is you do not know it and would not believe it\nif any one could tell you so.  I did not know it; but it was\nnevertheless the fact.\n\nAs the sun sank lower I hurried on faster, but never long in one line--\nalways turning this way and that to search for the particular marks I\nhad in mind.  At last we came to four trees in a line, and my heart gave\na great jump, for these we had certainly passed before.  In order to\nmake quite sure I hunted for koodoo spoor; there was none to be seen,\nbut on an old molehill there was the single print of a dog's foot.  \"Ha,\nJock's!\"  I exclaimed aloud; and Jock himself at the sound of his name\nstepped up briskly and sniffed at his own spoor.  Close beside it there\nwas the clear mark of a heeled boot, and there were others further on.\nThere was no doubt about it, they were Jock's and mine, and I could have\ngiven a whoop of delight; but a chilly feeling came over me when I\nrealised that the footprints were _leading the same way as we were\ngoing_, instead of the opposite way.  What on earth did it mean?\n\nI laid the rifle down and sat on an old stump to think it out, and after\npuzzling over it for some minutes came to the conclusion that by some\nstupid blunder I must have turned round somewhere and followed the line\nof the koodoo, instead of going back on it.  The only thing to be done\nwas to right about face and go faster than ever; but, bad as the\ndisappointment was, it was a certain consolation to know that we were on\nthe track at last.  That at any rate was a certainty; for, besides the\nfootprints, the general appearance of the country and many individual\nfeatures were perfectly familiar, now that I took a good look at them\nfrom this point.\n\nAt that moment I had not a shadow of doubt about the way--no more,\nindeed, than if we had been on the road itself: no suspicion of the\ntruth occurred to me; yet the simple fact is we were not then on the\nkoodoo trail at all, but, having made a complete circle, had come on to\nour own trail at the molehill and were now doing the circle the second\ntime--but the reverse way now.\n\nThe map on the opposite page is an attempt to show what happened; the\ndetails are of course only guesswork, but the general idea is correct.\nThe koodoo themselves had moved in a rough circle and in the first\nattempt to return to the waggons I had started back on their trail but\nmust have turned aside somewhere, and after that, by dodging about\nlooking for special landmarks, have made a complete circle.  Thus we\neventually came back to the track on which we had started for home, and\nthe things that then looked so convincingly familiar were things seen\nduring the first attempt to return, and not, as I supposed, landmarks on\nthe original koodoo trail.  Jock's footprints in the molehill were only\na few hundred yards from the Cigarette Kopje and about the same distance\nfrom where we had lost the koodoo spoor; and we were, at that moment,\nactually within a mile of the waggons.\n\nIt seems incredible that one could be so near and not see or understand.\nWhy should one walk in circles instead of taking a fairly straight\nline?  How was it possible to pass Cigarette Kopje and not recognise it,\nfor I must have gone within fifty yards or less of it?  As for not\nseeing things, the answer is that the bush does not allow you to see\nmuch: the waggons, for instance, might as well have been a hundred miles\naway.  As for Cigarette Kop--things do not look the same unless seen\nfrom the same point; moreover there are heaps of things easily visible\nwhich you will never see at all because you are looking only for\nsomething else: you carry a preconceived idea, a sort of picture in your\neye, and everything that does not fit in with that is not noticed--not\neven seen.  As for walking in circles, it is my belief that most people,\njust like most horses, have a natural leaning or tendency towards one\nside or the other, and unless checked unconsciously indulge it.  When\nriding in the veld, or any open country, you will notice that some\nhorses will want to take any turn off to the right, others always go to\nthe left, and only very few keep straight on.  When out walking you will\nfind that some people cannot walk on your right hand without coming\nacross your front or working you into the gutter; others `mule' you from\nthe left.  Get them out in open country, walk briskly, and talk; then\ngive way a little each time they bump you, and in a very little while\nyou will have done the circle.  If you have this tendency in the\nBushveld, where you cannot see any distant object to make for as a goal,\nany obstacle straight in front of you throws you off to the side you\nincline to; any openings in the trees which look like avenues or easy\nways draw you; and between any two of them you will always choose the\none on your favourite side.  Finally, a little knowledge is a dangerous\nthing in the veld, as elsewhere.  When you know enough to recognise\nmarks without being able to identify or locate them--that is, when you\nknow you have seen them before but are not sure of the when and the\nwhere--goodness only knows what conclusion you will come to or what you\nwill do.\n\nI had passed Cigarette Kopje, it's true; but when coming towards it from\na new side it must have looked quite different; and besides that, I had\nnot been expecting it, not looking for it, not even thinking of it--had\nindeed said good-bye to it for ever.  When we turned back at the\nmolehill, beginning to do the circle for the second time, we must have\npassed quite close to Cigarette Kopje again, but again it was from a\ndifferent opening in the bush, and this time I had thought of nothing\nand seen nothing except the things I picked out and recognised as we\nhurried along.  To my half-opened beginner's eyes these things were\nfamiliar: we had passed them before; that seemed to be good enough: it\nmust be right; so on we went, simply doing the same circle a second\ntime, but this time the reverse way.  The length of my shadow stretching\nout before me as we started from the molehill was a reminder of the need\nfor haste, and we set off at a smart double.  A glance back every few\nminutes to make sure that we were returning the way we had come was\nenough, and on we sped, confident for my part that we, were securely on\nthe line of the koodoo and going straight for the waggons.\n\nIt is very difficult to say how long this lasted before once more a\nhorrible doubt arose.  It was when we had done half the circle that I\nwas pulled up as if struck in the face: the setting sun shining into my\neyes as we crossed an open space stopped me; for, as the bright\ngold-dust light of the sunset met me full, I remembered that it was my\nlong shadow _in front_ of me as we started from the molehill that had\nurged me to hurry on.  We had started due east: we were going dead west!\nWhat on earth was wrong?  There were the trees and spaces we had\npassed, a blackened stump, an ant-bear hole; all familiar.  What then\nwas the meaning of it?  Was it only a temporary swerve?  No!  I tested\nthat by pushing on further along the track we were following, and it\nheld steadily to the west.  Was it then all imagination about having\nbeen there before?  No, that was absurd!  And yet--and yet, as I went\non, no longer trotting and full of hope but walking heavily and weighted\nwith doubt, the feeling of uncertainty grew until I really did not know\nwhether the familiar-looking objects and scenes were indeed old\nacquaintances or merely imagination playing tricks in a country where\nevery style and sample was copied a thousand times over.\n\nA few minutes later I again caught sight of the sunset glow--it was on\nmy direct right: it meant that the trail had taken another turn, while I\ncould have sworn we were holding a course straight as an arrow.  It was\nall a hopeless tangle.  I was lost then--and knew it.  It was not the\ndread of a night out in the bush--for after many months of roughing it,\nthat had no great terrors for me--but the helpless feeling of being lost\nand the anxiety and uncertainty about finding the road again, that\ngnawed at me and made me feel tucked-up and drawn.  I wondered when they\nwould begin to look for me, if they would light big fires and fire\nshots, and if it would be possible to see or hear the signals.  The\nlight would not last much longer; the dimness, the silence, and the\nhateful doubts about the trail made it more and more difficult to\nrecognise the line; so I thought it was time to fire a signal shot.\n\nThere was no answer.  It was silly to hope for one; for even if it had\nbeen heard they would only have thought that I was shooting at\nsomething.  Yet the clinging to hope was so strong that every twenty\nyards or so I stopped to listen for a reply; and when, after what seemed\nan eternity, none came, I fired another.  When you shoot in the\nexcitement of the chase the noise of the report does not strike you as\nanything out of the way; but a signal shot when you are alone and lost\nseems to fill the world with sound and to shake the earth itself.  It\nhas a most chilling effect, and the feeling of loneliness becomes acute\nas the echoes die away and still no answer comes.\n\nAnother short spell of tip-toe walking and intent listening, and then it\ncame to me that one shot as a signal was useless; I should have fired\nmore and at regular intervals, like minute-guns at sea.  I felt in my\npocket: there were only four cartridges there and one in the rifle;\nthere was night before me, with the wolves and the lions; there was the\nfood for to-morrow, and perhaps more than to-morrow!  There could be no\nminute-guns: two shots were all that could be spared, and I looked about\nfor some high and open ground where the sound would travel far and wide.\nOn ahead of us to the right the trees seemed fewer and the light\nstronger; and there I came upon some rising ground bare of bush.  It was\nnot much for my purpose, but it was higher than the rest and quite open,\nand there were some rocks scattered about the top.  The same old feeling\nof mixed remembrance and doubt came over me as we climbed it: it looked\nfamiliar and yet different.  Was it memory or imagination?\n\nBut there was no time for wonderings.  From the biggest rock, which was\nonly waist high, I fired off two of my precious cartridges, and stood\nlike a statue listening for the reply.  The silence seemed worse than\nbefore: the birds had gone to roost; even the flies had disappeared;\nthere was no sound at all but the beat of my own heart and Jock's\npanting breath.\n\nThere were three cartridges and a few damp matches left.  There was no\nsun to dry them now, but I laid them out carefully on the smooth warm\nrock, and hoped that one at least would serve to light our camp fire.\nThere was no time to waste: while the light lasted I had to drag up wood\nfor the fire and pick a place for the camp--somewhere where the rocks\nbehind and the fire in front would shelter us from the lions and hyenas,\nand where I could watch and listen for signals in the night.\n\nThere was plenty of wood near by, and thinking anxiously of the damp\nmatches I looked about for dry tindery grass so that any spark would\ngive a start for the fire.  As I stooped to look for the grass I came on\na patch of bare ground between the scattered tufts, and in the middle of\nit there lay a half-burnt match; and such a flood of relief and hope\nsurged up that my heart beat up in my throat.  Where there were matches\nthere had been men!  We were not in the wilds, then, where white men\nseldom went--not off the beaten track: perhaps not far from the road\nitself.\n\nYou must experience it to know what it meant at that moment.  It drew me\non to look for more!  A yard away I found the burnt end of a cigarette;\nand before there was time to realise why that should seem queer, I came\non eight or ten matches with their heads knocked off.\n\nFor a moment things seemed to go round and round.  I sat down with my\nback against the rock and a funny choky feeling in my throat.  I knew\nthey were my matches and cigarette, and that we were exactly where we\nhad started from hours before, when we gave up the chase of tie koodoo.\nI began to understand things then: why places and landmarks seemed\nfamiliar; why Jock's spoor in the molehill had pointed the wrong way;\nwhy my shadow was in front and behind and beside me in turns.  We had\nbeen going round in a circle.  I jumped up and looked about me with a\nfresh light; and it was all clear as noonday then.  Why, this was the\nfourth time we had been on or close to some part of this same rise that\nday, each time within fifty yards of the same place; it was the second\ntime I had sat on that very rock.  And there was nothing odd or\nremarkable about that either, for each time I had been looking for the\nhighest point to spy from and had naturally picked the rock-topped rise;\nand I had not recognised it, only because we came upon it from different\nsides each time and I was thinking of other things all the while.\n\nAll at once it seemed as if my eyes were opened and all was clear at\nlast.  I knew what to do: just make the best of it for the night; listen\nfor shots and watch for fires; and if by morning no help came in that\nway, then strike a line due south for the road and follow it up until we\nfound the waggons.  It might take all day or even more, but we were sure\nof water that way and one could do it.  The relief of really\nunderstanding was so great that the thought of a night out no longer\nworried me.\n\nThere was enough wood gathered, and I stretched out on the grass to rest\nas there was nothing else to do.  We were both tired out, hot, dusty,\nand very very thirsty; but it was too late to hunt for water then.  I\nwas lying on my side chewing a grass stem, and Jock lay down in front of\nme a couple of feet away.  It was a habit of his: he liked to watch my\nface, and often when I rolled over to ease one side and lie on the other\nhe would get up when he found my back turned to him and come round\ndeliberately to the other side and sling himself down in front of me\nagain.  There he would lie with his hind legs sprawled on one side, his\nfront legs straight out, and his head resting on his paws.  He would lie\nlike that without a move, his little dark eyes fixed on mine all the\ntime until the stillness and the rest made him sleepy, and he would\nblink and blink, like a drowsy child, fighting against sleep until it\nbeat him; and then--one long-drawn breath as he rolled gently over on\nhis side, and Jock was away in Snoozeland.\n\nIn the loneliness of that evening I looked into his steadfast resolute\nface with its darker muzzle and bright faithful eyes that looked so soft\nand brown when there was nothing to do but got so beady black when it\ncame to fighting.  I felt very friendly to the comrade who was little\nmore than a puppy still; and he seemed to feel something too; for as I\nlay there chewing the straw and looking at him, he stirred his stump of\na tail in the dust an inch or so from time to time to let me know that\nhe understood all about it and that it was all right as long as we were\ntogether.\n\nBut an interruption came.  Jock suddenly switched up his head, put it a\nbit sideways as a man would do, listening over his shoulder with his\nnose rather up in the air.  I watched him, and thinking that it was\nprobably only a buck out to feed in the cool of the evening, I tickled\nhis nose with the long straw, saying, \"No good, old chap; only three\ncartridges left.  We must keep them.\"\n\nNo dog likes to have his nose tickled: it makes them sneeze; and many\ndogs get quite offended, because it hurts their dignity.  Jock was not\noffended, but he got up and, as if to show me that I was frivolous and\nnot attending properly to business, turned away from me and with his\nears cocked began to listen again.\n\nHe was standing slightly in front of me and I happened to notice his\ntail: it was not moving; it was drooping slightly and perfectly still,\nand he kept it like that as he stepped quietly forward on to another\nsloping rock overlooking a side where we had not yet been.  Evidently\nthere was something there, but he did not know what, and he wanted to\nfind out.\n\nI watched him, much amused by his calm businesslike manner.  He walked\nto the edge of the rock and looked out: for a few minutes he stood\nstock-still with his ears cocked and his tail motionless; then his ears\ndropped and his tail wagged gently from side to side.\n\nSomething--an instinct or sympathy quickened by the day's experience,\nthat I had never quite known before--taught me to understand, and I\njumped up, thinking, \"He sees something that he knows: he is pleased.\"\nAs I walked over to him, he looked back at me with his mouth open and\ntongue out, his ears still down and tail wagging--he was smiling all\nover, in his own way.  I looked out over his head, and there, about\nthree hundred yards off, were the oxen peacefully grazing and the herd\nboy in his red coat lounging along behind them.\n\nShame at losing myself and dread of the others' chaff kept me very\nquiet, and all they knew for many months was that we had had a long\nfruitless chase after koodoo and hard work to get back in time.\n\nI had had my lesson, and did not require to have it rubbed in and be\nroasted as Buggins had been.  Only Jock and I knew all about it; but\nonce or twice there were anxious nervous moments when it looked as if we\nwere not the only ones in the secret.  The big Zulu driver, Jim\nMakokel'--always interested in hunting and all that concerned Jock--\nasked me as we were inspanning what I had fired the last two shots at;\nand as I pretended not to hear or to notice the question, he went on to\nsay how he had told the other boys that it must have been a klipspringer\non a high rock or a monkey or a bird because the bullets had whistled\nover the waggons.  I told him to inspan and not talk so much, and moved\nround to the other side of the waggon.\n\nThat night I slept hard, but woke up once dreaming that several lions\nwere looking down at me from the top of a big flat rock and Jock was\nkeeping them off.\n\nJock was in his usual place beside me, lying against my blankets.  I\ngave him an extra pat for the dream, thinking, \"Good old boy; we know\nall about it, you and I, and we're not going to tell.  But we've learned\nsome things that we won't forget.\"  And as I dropped off to sleep again\nI felt a few feeble sleepy pats against my leg, and knew it was Jock's\ntail wagging \"Good night.\"\n\n\nCHAPTER NINE.\n\nTHE IMPALA STAMPEDE.\n\nNot all our days were spent in excitement--far far from it.  For six or\nseven months the rains were too heavy, the heat too great, the grass too\nrank, and the fever too bad in the Bushveld for any one to do any good\nthere; so that for more than half of the year we had no hunting to speak\nof, as there was not much to be done above the Berg.  But even during\nthe hunting season there were many off-days and long spells when we\nnever fired a shot.  The work with the waggons was hard when we had full\nloads, the trekking slow and at night, so that there was always\nsomething to do in the daytime--repairs to be done, oxen to be doctored,\ngrass and water to be looked for, and so on; and we had to make up sleep\nwhen we could.  Even when the sport was good and the bag satisfactory\nthere was usually nothing new to tell about it.  So Jock and I had many\na long spell when there was no hunting, many a bad day when we worked\nhard but had no sport, and many a good day when we got what we were\nafter and nothing happened that would interest any one else.  Every hunt\nwas exciting and interesting for us, even those in which we got nothing;\nindeed some of the most interesting were those in which the worst\ndisappointments occurred, when after hard work and long chases the game\nescaped us.  To tell all that happened would be to tell the same old\nstory many times over; but indeed, it would not be possible to tell all,\nfor there were some things--the most interesting of all, perhaps--which\nonly Jock knew.\n\nAfter the fight with the duiker there was never any doubt as to what he\nwould do if allowed to follow up a wounded animal.  It made a deal of\ndifference in the hunting to know that he could be trusted to find it\nand hold on or bay it until I could get up.  The bush was so thick that\nit was not possible to see more than a very few hundred yards at best,\nand the country was so dry and rough that if a wounded animal once got\nout of sight only an expert tracker had any chance of finding it again.\nJock soon showed himself to be better than the best of trackers, for\nbesides never losing the trail he would either pull down the buck or, if\ntoo big for that, attack and worry even the biggest of them to such an\nextent that they would have to keep turning on him to protect themselves\nand thus give me the chance to catch up.\n\nBut the first result of my confidence in him was some perfectly hopeless\nchases.  It is natural enough to give oneself the benefit of any doubt;\nthe enthusiastic beginner always does so, and in his case the lack of\nexperience often creates a doubt where none should have existed; and the\ndoubt is often very welcome, helping him out with explanations of the\nunflattering facts.  For the listener it is, at best and worst, only\namusing or tiresome; but for the person concerned it is different--for,\nas Rocky said, `It don't fool any one worth speakin' of 'cept yerself.'\nAnd `there's the rub.'  Whenever a bullet struck with a thud, and no\ndust appeared to show that it had hit the ground, I thought that it must\nhave wounded the buck; and once you get the idea that the buck is hit,\nall sorts of reasons appear in support of it.  There is hardly anything\nthat the buck can do which does not seem to you to prove that it is\nwounded.  It bounds into the air, races off suddenly, or goes away quite\nslowly; it switches its tail or shakes its head; it stops to look back,\nor does not stop at all; the spoor looks awkward and scrappy; the rust\non the grass looks like dry blood.  If you start with a theory instead\nof weighing the evidence all these things will help to prove that\ntheory: they will, in fact, mean exactly what you want them to mean.\nYou `put up a job on yerself'--to quote Rocky again--and with the sweat\nof your brow and vexation of spirit you have to work that job out.\n\nPoor old Jock had a few hard chases after animals which I thought were\nwounded but were not hit at all--not many, however, for he soon got hold\nof the right idea and was a better judge than his master.  He went off\nthe instant he was sent, but if there was nothing wounded--that is, if\nhe could not pick up a `blood spoor'--he would soon show it by casting\nacross the trail, instead of following hard on it; and I knew then there\nwas nothing in it.  Often he would come back of his own accord, and\nthere was something quite peculiar in his look when he returned from\nthese wild-goose chases that seemed to say, \"No good: you were quite\nwrong.  You missed the whole lot of them.\"  He would come up to me with\nhis mouth wide-open and tongue out, a bit blown, and stand still with\nhis front legs wide apart, looking up at me with that nothing-in-it sort\nof look in his eyes and not a movement in his ears or tail and never a\nturn of his head to show the least interest in anything else.  I got to\nknow that look quite well; and to me it meant, \"Well, that job was a\nfailure--finished and done for.  Now is there anything else you can\nthink of?\"\n\nWhat always seemed to me so curious and full of meaning was that he\nnever once looked back in the direction of the unwounded game, but\nseemed to put them out of his mind altogether as of no further interest.\nIt was very different when he got on to the trail of a wounded buck and\nI had to call him off, as was sometimes necessary when the chase looked\nhopeless or it was too late to go further.  He would obey, of course--no\namount of excitement made him forget that; but he would follow me in a\nsort of sideways trot, looking back over his shoulder all the time, and\nwhenever there was a stop, turning right round and staring intently in\nthe direction of the game with his little tail moving steadily from side\nto side and his hind legs crouched as if ready to spring off the instant\nhe got permission.\n\nTwice I thought he was lost for ever through following wounded game.\nThe first occasion was also the first time that we got among the impala\nand saw them in numbers.  There is no more beautiful and fascinating\nsight than that of a troop of impala or springbuck really on the move\nand jumping in earnest.  The height and distance that they clear is\nsimply incredible.  The impala's greater size and its delicate spiral\nhorns give it a special distinction; the springbuck's brilliant white\nand red, and the divided crest which fans out along the spine when it is\nexcited, are unique.  But who can say which of the many beautiful\nantelopes is the most beautiful?  The oldest hunter will tell you of\nfirst one, then another, and then another, as they come to mind, just as\nhe saw them in some supreme unforgettable moment; and each at that\nmoment has seemed quite the most beautiful animal in the world.\n\nIt is when they are jumping that the impala are seen at their best.  No\none knows what they really can do, for there are no fences in their\ncountry by which to judge or guess, and as they run in herds it is\npractically impossible ever to find the take-off or landing-place of any\nsingle animal.  Once when hunting along the Wenhla Mohali River we\nmanaged to turn seven of them into an old run ending in a rocky gorge;\nbut suspecting danger they would not face the natural outlet, and\nturning up the slope cleared a barrier of thick thorn scrub and escaped.\nWhen we looked at the place afterwards we found that the bushes were\nnine feet high.  We were not near enough to see whether they touched the\ntops or cleared them; all we were sure of was that they did not hesitate\nfor a second to face a jump nine feet high at the top of a sharp rise,\nand that all seven did it in follow-my-leader order with the most\nperfect ease and grace.\n\nEvery hunter has seen a whole troop, old and young, following the\nexample of the leader, clear a road or donga twenty feet wide,\napparently in an effortless stride.  It is a fine sight, and the steady\nstream of buck makes an arch of red and white bodies over the road\nlooking like the curve of a great wave.  You stand and watch in\nspeechless admiration; and the first gasp at a glorious leap is followed\nby steady silent wonder at the regularity of the numbers.  Then suddenly\nyou see one animal--for no apparent reason: it may be fright or it may\nbe frolic--take off away back behind the others, shoot up, and sail high\nabove the arch of all the rest, and with head erect and feet comfortably\ngathered, land far beyond them--the difference between ease and effort,\nand oh! the perfect grace of both!  Something is wrung from you--a word,\na gasp--and you stand breathless with wonder and admiration until the\nlast one is gone.  You have forgotten to shoot; but they have left you\nsomething better than a trophy, something which time will only glorify--\na picture that in daylight or in dark will fill your mind whenever you\nhear the name Impala.\n\nSomething of this I carried away from my first experience among them.\nThere were a few minutes of complete bewilderment, a scene of the\nwildest confusion, and flashes of incident that go to make a great\npicture which it is impossible to forget.  But then there followed many\nhours of keen anxiety when I believed that Jock was gone for ever; and\nit was long before that day found its place in the gallery of happy\nmemories.\n\nWe had gone out after breakfast, striking well away from the main road\nuntil we got among the thicker thorns where there was any amount of\nfresh spoor and we were quite certain to find a troop sooner or later.\nThe day was so still, the ground so dry, and the bush so thick that the\nchances were the game would hear us before we could get near enough to\nsee them.  Several times I heard sounds of rustling bush or feet\ncantering away: something had heard us and made off unseen; so I dropped\ndown into the sandy bed of a dry donga and used it as a stalking trench.\nFrom this it was easy enough to have a good look around every hundred\nyards or so without risk of being heard or seen.  We had been going\nalong cautiously in this way for some time when, peering over the bank,\nI spied a single impala half hidden by a scraggy bush.  It seemed queer\nthat there should be only one, as their habit is to move in troops; but\nthere was nothing else to be seen; indeed it was only the flicker of an\near on this one that had caught my eye.  Nothing else in the land moved.\n\nJock climbed the bank also, following so closely that he bumped against\nmy heels, and when I lay flat actually crawled over my legs to get up\nbeside me and see what was on.  Little by little he got into the way of\nimitating all I did, so that after a while it was hardly necessary to\nsay a word or make a sign to him.  He lay down beside me and raised his\nhead to look just as he saw me do.  He was all excitement, trembling\nlike a wet spaniel on a cold day, and instead of looking steadily at the\nimpala as I was doing and as he usually did, he was looking here there\nand everywhere; it seemed almost as if he was looking at things--not for\nthem.  It was my comfortable belief at the moment that he had not yet\nspotted the buck, but was looking about anxiously to find out what was\ninteresting me.  It turned out, as usual, that he had seen a great deal\nmore than his master had.\n\nThe stalking looked very easy, as a few yards further up the donga there\nwas excellent cover in some dense thorns, behind which we could walk\nboldly across open ground to within easy range of the buck and get a\nclear shot.  We reached the cover all right, but I had not taken three\nsteps into the open space beyond before there was a rushing and\nscrambling on every side of me.  The place was a whirlpool of racing and\nplunging impala; they came from every side and went in every direction\nas though caught suddenly in an enclosure and, mad with fear and\nbewilderment, were trying to find a way out.  How many there were it was\nquite impossible to say: the bush was alive with them; and the dust they\nkicked up, the noise of their feet, their curious sneezy snorts, and\ntheir wild confusion completely bewildered me.  Not one stood still.\nNever for a moment could I see any single animal clearly enough or long\nenough to fire at it; another would cross it; a bush would cover it as I\naimed; or it would leap into the air, clearing bushes, bucks and\neverything in its way, and disappear again in the moving mass.  They\nseemed to me to whirl like leaves in a wind eddy: my eyes could not\nfollow them and my brain swam as I looked.\n\nIt was a hot day; there was no breeze at all; and probably the herd had\nbeen resting after their morning feed and drink when we came upon them.\nBy creeping up along the donga we had managed to get unobserved right\ninto the middle of the dozing herd, so they were literally on every side\nof us.  At times it looked as if they were bound to stampede over us and\nsimply trample us down in their numbers; for in their panic they saw\nnothing, and not one appeared to know what or where the danger was.\nTime and again, as for part of a second I singled one out and tried to\naim, others would come racing straight for us, compelling me to switch\nround to face them, only to find them swerve with a dart or a mighty\nbound when within a few paces of me.\n\nWhat Jock was doing during that time I do not know.  It was all such a\nwhirl of excitement and confusion that there are only a few clear\nimpressions left on my mind.  One is of a buck coming through the air\nright at me, jumping over the backs of two others racing across my\nfront.  I can see now the sudden wriggle of its body and the look of\nterror in its eyes when it saw me and realised that it was going to land\nalmost at my feet.  I tried to jump aside, but it was not necessary:\nwith one touch on the ground it shot slantingly past me like a ricochet\nbullet.  Another picture that always comes back is that of a splendid\nram clearing the first of the dense thorn bushes that were to have been\nmy cover in stalking.  He flew over it outlined against the sky in the\neasiest most graceful and most perfect curve imaginable.  It came back\nto me afterwards that he was eight or ten yards from me, and yet I had\nto look up into the sky to see his white chest and gracefully gathered\nfeet as he cleared the thorn bush like a soaring bird.\n\nOne shot, out of three or four fired in desperation as they were melting\naway, hit something; the unmistakable thud of the bullet told me so.\nThat time it was the real thing, and when you hear the real thing you\ncannot mistake it.  The wounded animal went off with the rest and I\nfollowed, with Jock ahead of me hot on the trail.  A hundred yards\nfurther on where Jock with his nose to the ground had raced along\nbetween some low stones and a marula tree I came to a stop--bush all\nround me, not a living thing in sight, and all as silent as the grave.\nOn one of the smooth hot stones there was a big drop of blood, and a few\nyards on I found a couple more.  Here and there along the spoor there\nwere smears on the long yellow grass, and it was clear enough, judging\nby the height of the blood-marks from the ground, that the impala was\nwounded in the body--probably far back, as there were no frothy bubbles\nto show a lung shot.  I knew that it would be a long chase unless Jock\ncould head the buck off and bay it; but unless he could do this at once,\nhe was so silent in his work that there was little chance of finding\nhim.  The trail became more and more difficult to follow; the blood was\nless frequent, and the hot sun dried it so quickly that it was more than\nI could do to pick it out from the red streaks on the grass and\nmany-coloured leaves.  So I gave it up and sat down to smoke and wait.\n\nHalf an hour passed, and still no Jock.  Then I wandered about whistling\nand calling for him--calling until the sound of my own voice became\nquite uncanny, the only sound in an immense silence.  Two hours passed\nin useless calling and listening, searching and waiting, and then I gave\nit up altogether and made back for the waggons, trying to hope against\nmy real conviction that Jock had struck the road somewhere and had\nfollowed it to the outspan, instead of coming back on his own trail\nthrough the bush to me.\n\nBut there was no Jock at the waggons; and my heart sank, although I was\nnot surprised.  It was nearly four hours since he had disappeared, and\nit was as sure as anything could be that something extraordinary must\nhave happened or he would have come back to me long before this.  No one\nat the waggons had seen him since we started out together; and there was\nnothing to be done but to wait and see what would happen.  It was\nperfectly useless to look for him: if alive and well, he was better able\nto find his way than the best tracker that ever lived; if dead or\ninjured and unable to move, there was not one chance in a million of\nfinding him.\n\nThere was only one kaffir whom Jock would take any notice of or would\nallow to touch him--a great big Zulu named Jim Makokel'.  Jim was one of\nthe real fighting Zulu breed; and the pride he took in Jock, and the\nsort of partnership that he claimed in tastes, disposition and exploits,\nbegan the day Jock fought the table-leg and grew stronger and stronger\nto the end.  Jim became Jock's devoted champion, and more than once, as\nwill be seen, showed that he would face man or beast to stand by him\nwhen he needed help.\n\nThis day when I returned to the waggons Jim was sitting with the other\ndrivers in the group round the big pot of porridge.  I saw him give one\nquick look my way and heard him say sharply to the others, \"Where is the\ndog?  Where is Jock?\"  He stood there looking at me with a big wooden\nspoon full of porridge stopped on the way to his mouth.  In a few\nminutes they all knew what had happened; the other boys took it calmly,\nsaying composedly that the dog would find his way back.  But Jim was not\ncalm: it was not his nature.  At one moment he would agree with them,\nswamping them with a flood of reasons why Jock, the best dog in the\nworld, would be sure to come back; and the next--hot with restless\nexcitement--would picture all that the dog might have been doing and all\nthat he might still have to face, and then break off to proclaim loudly\nthat every one ought to go out and hunt for him.  Jim was not practical\nor reasonable--he was too excitable for that; but he was very loyal, and\nit was his way to show his feelings by doing something--generally and\npreferably by fighting some one.  Knowing only too well how useless it\nwould be to search for Jock, I lay down under the waggon to rest and\nwait.\n\nAfter half an hour of this Jim could restrain himself no longer.  He\ncame over to where I lay and with a look of severe disapproval and\nbarely controlled indignation, asked me for a gun, saying that he\nhimself meant to go out and look for Jock.  It would be nearer the mark\nto say that he demanded a gun.  He was so genuinely anxious and so\nindignant at what he considered my indifference that it was impossible\nto be angry; and I let him talk away to me and at me in his exciting\nbullying way.  He would take no answer and listen to no reason; so\nfinally to keep him quiet I gave him the shot gun, and off he went,\nmuttering his opinions of every one else--a great springy striding\npicture of fierce resolution.\n\nHe came back nearly three hours later, silent, morose, hot and dusty.\nHe put the gun down beside me without a word--just a click of disgust;\nand as he strode across to his waggon, called roughly to one of the\ndrivers for the drinking water.  Lifting the bucket to his mouth he\ndrank like an ox and slammed it down again without a word of thanks;\nthen sat down in the shade of the waggon, filled his pipe, and smoked in\nsilence.\n\nThe trekking hour came and passed; but we did not move.  The sun went\ndown, and in the quiet of the evening we heard the first jackal's\nyapping--the first warning of the night.  There were still lions and\ntigers in those parts, and any number of hyenas and wild dogs, and the\ndarker it grew and the more I thought of it, the more hopeless seemed\nJock's chance of getting through a night in the bush trying to work his\nway back to the waggons.\n\nIt was almost dark when I was startled by a yell from Jim Makokel', and\nlooking round, saw him bound out into the road shouting, \"He has come,\nhe has come!  What did I tell you?\"  He ran out to Jock, stooping to pat\nand talk to him, and then in a lower voice and with growing excitement\nwent on rapidly, \"See the blood!  See it!  He has fought: he has killed!\nDog of all dogs!  Jock, Jock!\" and his savage song of triumph broke off\nin a burst of rough tenderness, and he called the dog's name five or six\ntimes with every note of affection and welcome in his deep voice.  Jock\ntook no notice of Jim's dancing out to meet him, nor of his shouts,\nendearments and antics; slowing his tired trot down to a walk, he came\nstraight on to me, flickered his ears a bit, wagged his tail cordially,\nand gave my hand a splashy lick as I patted him.  Then he turned round\nin the direction he had just come from, looked steadily out, cocked his\nears well up, and moved his tail slowly from side to side.  For the next\nhalf-hour or so he kept repeating this action every few minutes; but\neven without that I knew that it had been no wild-goose chase, and that\nmiles away in the bush there was something lying dead which he could\nshow me if I would but follow him back again to see.\n\nWhat had happened in the eight hours since he had dashed off in pursuit\ncan only be guessed.  That he had pulled down the impala and killed it\nseemed certain--and what a chase and what a fight it must have been to\ntake all that time!  The buck could not have been so badly wounded in\nthe body as to be disabled or it would have died in far less time than\nthat: then, what a fight it must have been to kill an animal six or\neight times his own weight and armed with such horns and hoofs!  But was\nit only the impala? or had the hyenas and wild dogs followed up the\ntrail, as they so often do, and did Jock have to fight his way through\nthem too?\n\nHe was hollow-flanked and empty, parched with thirst, and so blown that\nhis breath still caught in suffocating chokes.  He was covered with\nblood and sand; his beautiful golden coat was dark and stained; his\nwhite front had disappeared; and there on his chest and throat, on his\njaws and ears, down his front legs even to the toes, the blood was caked\non him--mostly black and dried but some still red and sticky.  He was a\nlittle lame in one fore leg, but there was no cut or swelling to show\nthe cause.  There was only one mark to be seen: over his right eye there\nwas a bluish line where the hair had been shaved off clean, leaving the\nskin smooth and unbroken.  What did it?  Was it horn, hoof, tooth, or--\nwhat?  Only Jock knew.\n\nHovering round and over me, pacing backwards and forwards between the\nwaggons like a caged animal, Jim, growing more and more excited, filled\nthe air with his talk his shouts and savage song.  Wanting to help, but\nalways in the way, ordering and thrusting the other boys here and there,\nhe worked himself up into a wild frenzy: the Zulu fighting blood on fire\nand he `saw red' everywhere.\n\nI called for water.  \"Water!\" roared Jim, \"bring water\"; and glaring\nround he made a spring--stick in hand--at the nearest kaffir.  The boy\nfled in terror, with Jim after him for a few paces, and brought a bucket\nof water.  Jim snatched it from him and with a resounding thump on the\nribs sent the unlucky kaffir sprawling on the ground.  Jock took the\nwater in great gulpy bites broken by pauses to get his breath again; and\nJim paced up and down--talking, talking, talking!  Talking to me, to the\nothers, to the kaffirs, to Jock, to the world at large, to the heavens,\nand to the dead.  His eyes glared like a wild beast's and gradually\nlittle seams of froth gathered in the corners of his mouth as he poured\nout his cataract of words, telling of all Jock had done and might have\ndone and would yet do; comparing him with the fighting heroes of his own\nrace, and wandering off into vivid recitals of single episodes and great\nbattles; seizing his sticks, shouting his war cries, and going through\nall the mimicry of fight with the wild frenzy of one possessed.  Time\nafter time I called him and tried to quiet him; but he was beyond\ncontrol.\n\nOnce before he had broken out like this.  I had asked him something\nabout the Zulu war; and that had started a flood of memories and\nexcitement.  In the midst of some description I asked why they killed\nthe children; and he turned his glaring eyes on me a and said, \"Inkos,\nyou are my Inkos; but you are white.  If we fight to-morrow, I will kill\nyou.  You are good to me, you have saved me; but if our own king says\n`Kill!' we kill!  We see red; we kill all that lives.  I must kill you,\nyour wife, your mother, your children, your horses, your oxen, your dog,\nthe fowls that run with the waggons--all that lives I kill.  The blood\nmust run.\"  And I believed him; for that was the Zulu fighting spirit.\nSo this time I knew it was useless to order or to talk: he was beyond\ncontrol, and the fit must run its course.\n\nThe night closed in and there was quiet once more.  The flames of the\ncamp fires had died down; the big thorn logs had burnt into glowing\ncoals like the pink crisp hearts of giant water-melons; Jock lay\nsleeping, tired out, but even in his sleep came little spells of panting\nnow and then, like the after-sobs of a child that has cried itself to\nsleep; we lay rolled in our blankets, and no sound came from where the\nkaffirs slept.  But Jim--only Jim--sat on his rough three-legged stool,\nelbows on knees and hands clasped together, staring intently into the\ncoals.  The fit worked slowly off, and his excitement died gradually\naway; now and then there was a fresh burst, but always milder and at\nlonger intervals, as you may see it in a dying fire or at the end of a\ngreat storm; slowly but surely he subsided until at last there were only\noccasional mutterings of \"Ow, Jock!\" followed by the Zulu click, the\nexpressive shake of the head, and that appreciative half grunt, half\nchuckle, by which they pay tribute to what seems truly wonderful.  He\nwanted no sleep that night: he sat on, waiting for the morning trek,\nstaring into the red coals, and thinking of the bygone glories of his\nrace in the days of the mighty Chaka.\n\nThat was Jim, when the fit was on him--transported by some trifling and\nunforeseen incident from the hum-drum of the road to the life he once\nhad lived with splendid recklessness.\n\n\nCHAPTER TEN.\n\nJOCK'S NIGHT OUT.\n\nJock was lost twice: that is to say, he was lost to me, and, as I\nthought, for ever.  It came about both times through his following up\nwounded animals and leaving me behind, and happened in the days when our\nhunting was all done on foot; when I could afford a horse and could keep\npace with him that difficulty did not trouble us.  The experience with\nthe impala had made me very careful not to let him go unless I felt sure\nthat the game was hard hit and that he would be able to pull it down or\nbay it.  But it is not always easy to judge that.  A broken leg shows at\nonce; but a body shot is very difficult to place, and animals shot\nthrough the lungs, and even through the lower part of the heart, often\ngo away at a cracking pace and are out of sight in no time, perhaps to\nkeep it up for miles, perhaps to drop dead within a few minutes.\n\nAfter that day with the impala we had many good days together and many\nhard ones: we had our disappointments, but we had our triumphs; and we\nwere both getting to know our way about by degrees.  Buck of many kinds\nhad fallen to us; but so far as I was concerned there was one\ndisappointment that was not to be forgotten.  The picture of that koodoo\nbull as he appeared for the last time looking over the ant-heap the day\nwe were lost was always before me.  I could not hear the name or see the\nspoor of koodoo without a pang of regret and the thought that never\nagain would such a chance occur.  Koodoo, like other kinds of game, were\nnot to be found everywhere; they favoured some localities more than\nothers, and when we passed through their known haunts chances of smaller\ngame were often neglected in the hope of coming across the koodoo.\n\nI could not give up whole days to hunting--for we had to keep moving\nalong with the waggons all the time--or it would have been easy enough\nin many parts to locate the koodoo and make sure of getting a good bag.\nAs it was, on three or four occasions we did come across them, and once\nI got a running shot, but missed.  This was not needed to keep my\ninterest in them alive, but it made me keener than ever.  Day by day I\nwent out always hoping to get my chance, and when at last the chance did\ncome it was quite in accordance with the experience of many others that\nit was not in the least expected.\n\nThe great charm of Bushveld hunting is its variety: you never know what\nwill turn up next--the only certainty being that it will not be what you\nare expecting.\n\nThe herd boy came noon to say that there buck feeding among the oxen\nonly a couple of hundred yards away.  He had been quite close to it, he\nsaid, and it was very tame.  Game, so readily alarmed by the sight of\nwhite men, will often take no notice of natives, allowing them to\napproach to very close quarters.  They are also easily stalked under\ncover of cattle or horses, and much more readily approached on horseback\nthan on foot.  The presence of other animals seems to give them\nconfidence or to excite mild curiosity without alarm, and thus distract\nattention from the man.  In this case the bonny little red-brown fellow\nwas not a bit scared; he maintained his presence of mind admirably; from\ntime to time he turned his head our way and, with his large but shapely\nand most sensitive ears thrown forward examined us frankly while he\nmoved slightly one way or another so as to keep under cover of the oxen\nand busily continue his browsing.\n\nIn and out among some seventy head of cattle we played hide-and-seek for\nquite a while--I not daring to fire for fear of hitting one of the\nbullocks--until at last he found himself manoeuvred out of the troop;\nand then without giving me a chance he was off into the bush in a few\nfrisky skips.  I followed quietly, knowing that as he was on the feed\nand not scared he would not go far.\n\nMoving along silently under good cover I reached a thick scrubby bush\nand peered over the top of it to search the grass under the surrounding\nthorn-trees for the little red-brown form.  I was looking about low down\nin the russety grass--for he was only about twice the size of Jock, and\nnot easy to spot--when a movement on a higher level caught my eye.  It\nwas just the flip of a fly-tickled ear; but it was a movement where all\nelse was still, and instantly the form of a koodoo cow appeared before\nme as a picture is thrown on a screen by a magic-lantern.  There it\nstood within fifty yards, the soft grey-and-white looking still softer\nin the shadow of the thorns, but as clear to me--and as still--as a\nfigure carved in stone.  The stem of a mimosa hid the shoulders, but all\nthe rest was plainly visible as it stood there utterly unconscious of\ndanger.  The tree made a dead shot almost impossible, but the risk of\ntrying for another position was too great, and I fired.  The thud of the\nbullet and the tremendous bound of the koodoo straight up in the air\ntold that the shot had gone home; but these things were for a time\nforgotten in the surprise that followed.  At the sound of the shot\ntwenty other koodoo jumped into life and sight before me.  The one I had\nseen and shot was but one of a herd all dozing peacefully in the shade,\nand strangest of all, it was the one that was farthest from me.  To the\nright and left of this one, at distances from fifteen to thirty yards\nfrom me, the magnificent creatures had been standing, and I had not seen\nthem; it was the flicker of this one's ear alone that had caught my eye.\nMy bewilderment was complete when I saw the big bull of the herd start\noff twenty yards on my right front pass away like a streak in a few\nsweep-strides.  It was a matter of seconds and they were all out of\nsight--all except the wounded one, which had turned off from the others.\nFor all the flurry and confusion I had not lost sight of her, and\nnoting her tucked-up appearance and shortened strides set Jock on her\ntrail, believing that she would be down in a few minutes.\n\nIt is not necessary to go over it all again: it was much the same as the\nimpala chase.  I came back tired, disappointed and beaten, and without\nJock.  It was only after darkness set in that things began to look\nserious.  When it came to midnight, with the camp wrapped in silence and\nin sleep, and there was still no sign of Jock, things looked very black\nindeed.\n\nI heard his panting breath before it was possible to see anything.  It\nwas past one o'clock when he returned.\n\n------------------------------------------------------------------------\n\nAs we had missed the night trek to wait for Jock I decided to stay on\nwhere we were until the next evening and to have another try for the\nwounded koodoo, with the chance of coming across the troop again.\n\nBy daybreak Jock did not seem much the worse for his night's\nadventures--whatever they were.  There were no marks of blood on him\nthis time; there were some scratches which might have been caused by\nthorns during the chase, and odd-looking grazes on both hind quarters\nnear the hip-bones, as though he had been roughly gravelled there.  He\nseemed a little stiff, and flinched when I pressed his sides and\nmuscles, but he was as game as ever when he saw the rifle taken down.\n\nThe koodoo had been shot through the body, and even without being run to\ndeath by Jock must have died in the night, or have lain down and become\ntoo cold and stiff to move.  If not discovered by wild animals there was\na good chance of finding it untouched in the early morning; but after\nsunrise every minute's delay meant fresh risk from the aasvogels.  There\nis very little which, if left uncovered, will escape their eyes.  You\nmay leave your buck for help to bring the meat in, certain from the most\ncareful scrutiny that there is not one of these creatures in sight, and\nreturn in half an hour to find nothing but a few bones, the horns and\nhoofs, a rag of skin, and a group of disgusting gorged vultures\nsquatting on a patch of ground all smeared, torn and feather-strewn from\ntheir voracious struggles.\n\nIn the winter sky unrelieved by the least fleck of cloud--a dome of\nspotless polished steel--nothing, you would think, can move unseen.  Yet\nthey are there.  In the early morning, from their white-splashed eeries\non some distant mountain they slide off like a launching ship into their\nsea of blue, and, striking the currents of the upper air, sweep round\nand upwards in immense circles, their huge motionless wings carrying\nthem higher and higher until they are lost to human sight.  Lie on your\nback in some dense shade where no side-lights strike in, but where an\nopening above forms a sort of natural telescope to the sky, and you may\nsee tiny specks where nothing could be seen before.  Take your\nfield-glasses: the specks are vultures circling up on high!  Look again,\nand far, far above you will see still other specks; and for aught you\nknow, there may be others still beyond.  How high are they?  And what\ncan they see from there?  Who knows?  But this is sure, that within a\nfew minutes scores will come swooping down in great spiral rushes where\nnot one was visible before.  My own belief is that they watch each\nother, tier above tier away into the limitless heavens--watching\njealously, as hungry dogs do, for the least suspicious sign--to swoop\ndown and share the spoil.\n\nIn the dewy cool of the morning we soon reached the place where Jock had\nleft me behind the evening before; and from that on he led the way.  It\nwas much slower work then; as far as I was concerned, there was nothing\nto guide me, and it was impossible to know what he was after.  Did he\nunderstand that it was not fresh game but the wounded koodoo that I\nwanted?  And, if so, was he following the scent of the old chase or\nmerely what he might remember of the way he had gone?  It seemed\nimpossible that scent could lie in that dry country for twelve hours;\nyet it was clearly nose more than eyes that guided him.  He went ahead\nsoberly and steadily, and once when he stopped completely, to sniff at a\nparticular tuft of grass, I found out what was helping him.  The grass\nwas well streaked with blood: quite dry, it is true; still it was blood.\n\nA mile or so on we checked again where the grass was trampled and the\nground scored with spoor.  The heavy spoor was all in a ring four or\nfive yards in diameter; outside this the grass was also flattened, and\nthere I found a dog's footprints.  But it had no further interest for\nJock; while I was examining it he picked up the trail and trotted on.\nWe came upon four or five other rings where they had fought.  The last\nof these was curiously divided by a fallen tree, and it puzzled me to\nguess how they could have made a circle with a good-sized trunk some two\nfeet high intersecting it.  I examined the dead tree and found a big\nsmear of blood and a lot of coarse greyish hair on it.  Evidently the\nkoodoo had backed against it whilst facing Jock and had fallen over it,\nrenewing the fight on the other side.  There were also some golden hairs\nsticking on the stumpy end of a broken branch, which may have had\nsomething to do with Jock's scraped sides.\n\nThen for a matter of a hundred yards or more it looked as if they had\nfought and tumbled all the way.  Jock was some distance ahead of me,\ntrotting along quietly, when I saw him look up, give that rare growling\nbark of his--one of suppressed but real fury--lower his head, and\ncharge.  Then came heavy flapping and scrambling and the wind of huge\nwings, as twenty or thirty great lumbering aasvogels flopped along the\nground with Jock dashing furiously about among them--taking flying leaps\nat them as they rose, and his jaws snapping like rat-traps as he missed\nthem.\n\nOn a little open flat of hard-baked sand lay the stripped frame of the\nkoodoo: the head and leg-bones were missing; meat-stripped fragments\nwere scattered all about; fifty yards away among some bushes Jock found\nthe head; and still further afield were remains of skin and thigh-bones\ncrushed almost beyond recognition.\n\nNo aasvogel had done this: it was hyenas' work.  The high-shouldered\nslinking brute, with jaws like a stone-crusher, alone cracks bones like\nthose and bigger ones which even the lion cannot tackle.  I walked back\na little way and found the scene of the last stand, all harrowed bare;\nbut there was no spoor of koodoo or of Jock to be seen there--only\nprints innumerable of wild dogs, hyenas and jackals, and some traces of\nwhere the carcase, no doubt already half-eaten, had been dragged by them\nin the effort to tear it asunder.\n\nJock had several times shown that he strongly objected to any\ninterference with his quarry; other dogs, kaffirs, and even white men,\nhad suffered or been badly scared for rashly laying hands on what he had\npulled down.  Without any doubt he had expected to find the koodoo there\nand had dealt with the aasvogels as trespassers; otherwise he would not\nhave tackled them without word from me.  It was also sure that until\npast midnight he had been there with the koodoo, watching or fighting.\nThen when had the hyenas and wild dogs come?  That was the question I\nwould have given much to have had answered.  But only Jock knew that!\n\nI looked at him.  The mane on his neck and shoulders which had risen at\nthe sight of the vultures was not flat yet; he was sniffing about slowly\nand carefully on the spoor of the hyenas and wild dogs; and he looked\n`fight' all over.  But what it all meant was beyond me; I could only\nguess--just as you will--what had happened out in the silent ghostly\nbush that night.\n\n\nCHAPTER ELEVEN.\n\nTHE KOODOO BULL.\n\nJock had learned one very clever trick in pulling down wounded animals.\nIt often happens when you income unexpectedly upon game that they are\noff before you see them, and the only chance you have of getting\nanything is with a running shot.  If they go straight from you the shot\nis not a very difficult one, although you see nothing but the lifting\nand falling hind quarters as they canter away; and a common result of\nsuch a shot is the breaking of one of the hind legs between the hip and\nthe hock.  Jock made his discovery while following a rietbuck which I\nhad wounded in this way.  He had made several tries at its nose and\nthroat, but the buck was going too strongly and was out of reach;\nmoreover it would not stop or turn when he headed it, but charged\nstraight on, bounding over him.  In trying once more for the throat he\ncannoned against the buck's shoulder and was sent rolling yards away.\nThis seemed to madden him: racing up behind he flew at the dangling leg,\ncaught it at the shin, and thrusting his feet well out, simply dragged\nuntil the buck slowed down, and then began furiously tugging sideways.\nThe crossing of the legs brought the wounded animal down immediately and\nJock had it by the throat before it could rise again.\n\nEvery one who is good at anything has some favourite method or device of\nhis own: that was Jock's.  It may have come to him, as it comes to many,\nby accident; but having once got it, he perfected it and used it\nwhenever it was possible.  Only once he made a mistake; and he paid for\nit--very nearly with his life.\n\nHe had already used this device successfully several times, but so far\nonly with the smaller buck.  This day he did what I should have thought\nto be impossible for a dog of three or four times his size.  I left the\nscene of torn carcase and crunched bones, consumed by regrets and\ndisappointment; each fresh detail only added to my feeling of disgust,\nbut Jock did not seem to mind; he jumped out briskly as soon as I\nstarted walking in earnest, as though he recognised that we were making\na fresh start, and he began to look forward immediately.\n\nThe little bare flat where the koodoo had fallen for the last time was\nat the head of one of those depressions which collect the waters of the\nsummer floods and, changing gradually into shallow valleys, are\neventually scoured out and become the dongas--dry in winter but full\ncharged with muddy flood in summer--which drain the Bushveld to its\nrivers.  Here and there where an impermeable rock formation crosses\nthese channels there are deep pools which, except in years of drought,\nlast all through the winter; and these are the drinking-places of the\ngame.  I followed this one down for a couple of miles without any\ndefinite purpose until the sight of some greener and denser wild figs\nsuggested that there might be water, and perhaps a rietbuck or a duiker\nnear by.  As we reached the trees Jock showed unmistakable signs of\ninterest in something, and with the utmost caution I moved from tree to\ntree in the shady grove towards where it seemed the water-hole might be.\n\nThere were bushy wild plums flanking the grove, and beyond them the\nordinary scattered thorns.  As I reached this point, and stopped to look\nout between the bushes on to the more open ground, a koodoo cow walked\nquietly up the slope from the water, but before there was time to raise\nthe rifle her easy stride had carried her behind a small mimosa tree.  I\ntook one quick step out to follow her up and found myself face to face\nat less than a dozen yards with a grand koodoo bull.  It is impossible\nto convey in words any real idea of the scene and how things happened.\nOf course, it was only for a fraction of a second that we looked\nstraight into each other's eyes; then, as if by magic, he was round and\ngoing from me with the overwhelming rush of speed and strength and\nweight combined.  Yet it is the first sight that remains with me: the\nproud head, the huge spiral horns, and the wide soft staring eyes--\nbefore the wildness of panic had stricken them.  The picture seems\nphotographed on eye and brain, never to be forgotten.  A whirlwind of\ndust and leaves marked his course, and through it I fired, unsteadied by\nexcitement and hardly able to see.  Then the right hind leg swung out,\nand the great creature sank for a moment, almost to the ground; and the\nsense of triumph, the longed for and unexpected success, `went to my\nhead' like a rush of blood.\n\nThere had been no time to aim, and the shot--a real snap shot--was not\nat all a bad one.  It was after that that the natural effect of such a\nmeeting and such a chance began to tell.  Thinking it all out beforehand\ndoes not help much, for things never happen as they are expected to; and\neven months of practice among the smaller kinds will not ensure a steady\nnerve when you just come face to face with big game--there seems to be\ntoo much at stake.\n\nI fired again as the koodoo recovered himself, but he was then seventy\nor eighty yards away and partly hidden at times by trees and scrub.  He\nstruck up the slope, following the line of the troop through the\nscattered thorns, and there, running hard and dropping quickly to my\nknee for steadier aim, I fired again and again--but each time a longer\nshot and more obscured by the intervening bush; and no tell-tale thud\ncame back to cheer me on.\n\nForgetting the last night's experience, forgetting everything except how\nwe had twice chased and twice lost them, seeing only another and the\ngrandest prize slipping away, I sent Jock on and followed as fast as I\ncould.  Once more the koodoo came in sight--just a chance at four\nhundred yards as he reached an open space on rising ground.  Jock was\nalready closing up, but still unseen, and the noble old fellow turned\nfull broadside to me as he stopped to look back.  Once more I knelt,\ngripping hard and holding my breath to snatch a moment's steadiness, and\nfired; but I missed again, and as the bullet struck under him he plunged\nforward and disappeared over the rise at the moment that Jock, dashing\nout from the scrub, reached his heels.\n\nThe old Martini carbine had one bad fault; even I could not deny that;\nyears of rough and careless treatment in all sorts of weather--for it\nwas only a discarded old Mounted Police weapon--had told on it, and both\nin barrel and breech it was well pitted with rust scars.  One result of\nthis was that it was always jamming, and unless the cartridges were kept\nwell greased the empty shells would stick and the ejector fail to work;\nand this was almost sure to happen when the carbine became hot from\nquick firing.  It jammed now, and fearing to lose sight of the chase I\ndared not stop a second, but ran on, struggling from time to time to\nwrench the breach open.\n\nReaching the place where they had disappeared, I saw with intense relief\nand excitement Jock and the koodoo having it out less than a hundred\nyards away.  The koodoo's leg was broken right up in the ham, and it was\na terrible handicap for an animal so big and heavy, but his nimbleness\nand quickness were astonishing.  Using the sound hind leg as a pivot he\nswung round, always facing his enemy; Jock was in and out, here, there\nand everywhere, as a buzzing fly torments one on a hot day; and indeed,\nto the koodoo just then he was the fly and nothing more; he could only\nannoy his big enemy, and was playing with his life to do it.  Sometimes\nhe tried to get round; sometimes pretended to charge straight in,\nstopping himself with all four feet spread--just out of reach; then like\na red streak he would fly through the air with a snap for the koodoo's\nnose.  It was a fight for life and a grand sight; for the koodoo, in\nspite of his wound, easily held his own.  No doubt he had fought out\nmany a life and death struggle to win and hold his place as lord of the\nherd and knew every trick of attack and defence.  Maybe too he was\nblazing with anger and contempt for this persistent little gad-fly that\nworried him so and kept out of reach.  Sometimes he snorted and feinted\nto charge; at other times backed slowly, giving way to draw the enemy\non; then with a sudden lunge the great horns swished like a scythe with\na tremendous reach out, easily covering the spot where Jock had been a\nfraction of a second before.  There were pauses too in which he watched\nhis tormentor steadily, with occasional impatient shakes of the head,\nor, raising it to full height, towered up a monument of splendid and\ncontemptuous indifference, looking about with big angry but unfrightened\neyes for the herd--his herd--that had deserted him; or with a slight\ntoss of his head he would walk limpingly forward, forcing the ignored\nJock before him; then, interrupted and annoyed by a flying snap at his\nnose, he would spring forward and strike with the sharp cloven fore\nfoot--zip-zip-zip--at Jock as he landed.  Any one of the vicious\nflashing stabs would have pinned him to the earth and finished him; but\nJock was never there.\n\nKeeping what cover there was I came up slowly behind them, struggling\nand using all the force I dared, short of smashing the lever, to get the\nempty cartridge out.  At last one of the turns in the fight brought me\nin view, and the koodoo dashed off again.  For a little way the pace\nseemed as great as ever, but it soon died away; the driving power was\ngone; the strain and weight on the one sound leg and the tripping of the\nbroken one were telling; and from that on I was close enough to see it\nall.  In the first rush the koodoo seemed to dash right over Jock--the\nswirl of dust and leaves and the bulk of the koodoo hiding him; then I\nsaw him close abreast, looking up at it and making furious jumps for its\nnose, alternately from one side and the other, as they raced along\ntogether.  The koodoo holding its nose high and well forward, as they do\nwhen on the move, with the horns thrown back almost horizontally, was\nout of his reach and galloped heavily on completely ignoring his\nattacks.\n\nThere is a suggestion of grace and poise in the movement of the koodoo\nbull's head as he gallops through the bush which is one of his\ndistinctions above the other antelopes.  The same supple balancing\nmovement that one notes in the native girls bearing their calabashes of\nwater upon their heads is seen in the neck of the koodoo, and for the\nsame reason: the movements of the body are softened into mere\nundulations, and the head with its immense spiral horns seems to sail\nalong in voluntary company--indeed almost as though it were bearing the\nbody below.\n\nAt the fourth or fifth attempt by Jock a spurt from the koodoo brought\nhim cannoning against its shoulder, and he was sent rolling unnoticed\nyards away.  He scrambled instantly to his feet, but found himself again\nbehind: it may have been this fact that inspired the next attempt, or\nperhaps he realised that attack in front was useless; for this time he\nwent determinedly for the broken leg.  It swung about in wild eccentric\ncurves, but at the third or fourth attempt he got it and hung on; and\nwith all fours spread he dragged along the ground.  The first startled\nspring of the koodoo jerked him into the air; but there was no let go\nnow, and although dragged along the rough ground and dashed about among\nthe scrub, sometimes swinging in the air, and sometimes sliding on his\nback, he pulled from side to side in futile attempts to throw the big\nanimal.  Ineffectual and even hopeless as it looked at first, Jock's\nattacks soon began to tell; the koodoo made wild efforts to get at him,\nbut with every turn he turned too, and did it so vigorously that the\nstaggering animal swayed over and had to plunge violently to recover its\nbalance.  So they turned, this way and that, until a wilder plunge swung\nJock off his feet, throwing the broken leg across the other one; then,\nwith feet firmly planted, Jock tugged again, and the koodoo trying to\nregain its footing was tripped by the crossed legs and came down with a\ncrash.\n\nAs it fell Jock was round and fastened on the nose; but it was no\nduiker, impala or rietbuck that he had to deal with this time.  The\nkoodoo gave a snort of indignation and shook its head: as a terrier\nshakes a rat, so it shook Jock, whipping the ground with his swinging\nbody, and with another indignant snort and toss of the head flung him\noff, sending him skidding along the ground on his back.  The koodoo had\nfallen on the wounded leg and failed to rise with the first effort; Jock\nwhile still slithering along the ground on his back was tearing at the\nair with his feet in his mad haste to get back to the attack, and as he\nscrambled up, he raced in again with head down and the little eyes black\nwith fury.  He was too mad to be wary, and my heart stood still as the\nlong horns went round with a swish; one black point seemed to pierce him\nthrough and through, showing a foot out the other side, and a jerky\ntwist of the great head sent him twirling like a tip-cat eight or ten\nfeet up in the air.  It had just missed him, passing under his stomach\nnext to the hind legs; but, until he dropped with a thud and, tearing\nand scrambling to his feet, he raced in again, I felt certain he had\nbeen gored through.\n\nThe koodoo was up again then.  I had rushed in with rifle clubbed, with\nthe wild idea of stunning it before it could rise, but was met by the\nlowered horns and unmistakable signs of charging, and beat a retreat\nquite as speedy as my charge.\n\nIt was a running fight from that on: the instant the koodoo turned to go\nJock was on to the leg again, and nothing could shake his hold.  I had\nto keep at a respectful distance, for the bull was still good for a\nfurious charge, even with Jock hanging on, and eyed me in the most\nunpromising fashion whenever I attempted to head it off or even to come\nclose up.\n\nThe big eyes were blood-shot then, but there was no look of fear in\nthem--they blazed with baffled rage.  Impossible as it seemed to shake\nJock off or to get away from us, and in spite of the broken leg and loss\nof blood, the furious attempts to beat us off did not slacken.  It was a\ndesperate running fight, and right bravely he fought it to the end.\n\nPartly barring the way in front were the whitened trunks and branches of\nseveral trees struck down by some storm of the year before, and running\nahead of the koodoo I made for these, hoping to find a stick straight\nenough for a ramrod to force the empty cartridge out.  As I reached them\nthe koodoo made for me with half a dozen plunges that sent me flying off\nfor other cover; but the broken leg swayed over one of the branches, and\nJock with feet planted against the tree hung on; and the koodoo, turning\nfuriously on him, stumbled, floundered, tripped, and came down with a\ncrash amongst the crackling wood.  Once more like a flash Jock was over\nthe fallen body and had fastened on the nose--but only to be shaken\nworse than before.  The koodoo literally flogged the ground with him,\nand for an instant I shut my eyes; it seemed as if the plucky dog would\nbe beaten into pulp.  The bull tried to chop him with its fore feet, but\ncould not raise itself enough, and at each pause Jock, with his watchful\nlittle eyes ever on the alert, dodged his body round to avoid the\nchopping feet without letting go his hold.  Then with a snort of fury\nthe koodoo, half rising, gave its head a wild upward sweep, and shook.\nAs a springing rod flings a fish the koodoo flung Jock over its head and\non to a low flat-topped thorn-tree behind.  The dog somersaulted slowly\nas he circled in the air, dropped on his back in the thorns some twelve\nfeet from the ground, and came tumbling down through the branches.\nSurely the tree saved him, for it seemed as if such a throw must break\nhis back.  As it was he dropped with a sickening thump; yet even as he\nfell I saw again the scrambling tearing movement, as if he was trying to\nrace back to the fight even before he reached ground.  Without a pause\nto breathe or even to look, he was in again and trying once more for the\nnose.\n\nThe koodoo lying partly on its side, with both hind legs hampered by the\nmass of dead wood, could not rise, but it swept the clear space in front\nwith the terrible horns, and for some time kept Jock at bay.  I tried\nstick after stick for a ramrod, but without success; at last, in\ndesperation at seeing Jock once more hanging to the koodoo's nose, I\nhooked the lever on to a branch and setting my foot against the tree\nwrenched until the empty cartridge flew out and I went staggering\nbackwards.\n\nIn the last struggle, while I was busy with the rifle, the koodoo had\nmoved, and it was then lying against one of the fallen trunks.  The\nfirst swing to get rid of Jock had literally slogged him against the\ntree; the second swing swept him under it where a bend in the trunk\nraised it: about a foot from the ground, and gaining his foothold there\nJock stood fast--there, there, with his feet planted firmly and his\nshoulder humped against the dead tree, he stood this tug-of-war.  The\nkoodoo with its head twisted back, as caught at the end of the swing,\ncould put no weight to the pull; yet the wrenches it gave to free itself\ndrew the nose and upper lip out like tough rubber and seemed to stretch\nJock's neck visibly.  I had to come round within a few feet of them to\navoid risk of hitting Jock, and it seemed impossible for bone and muscle\nto stand the two or three terrible wrenches that I saw.  The shot was\nthe end; and as the splendid head dropped slowly over, Jock let go his\nhold.\n\nHe had not uttered a sound except the grunts that were knocked out of\nhim.\n\n\nCHAPTER TWELVE.\n\nJIM MAKOKEL'.\n\nI am very much afraid that most people would consider him rather a bad\nlot.  The fact of the matter is he belonged to another period and other\nconditions.  He was simply a great passionate fighting savage, and,\ninstead of wearing the cast-off clothing of the white man and peacefully\ndriving bullock waggons along a transport road, should have been decked\nin his savage finery of leopard skin and black ostrich-feathers, showing\noff the powerful bronzed limbs and body all alive with muscle, and\nsharing in some wild war-dance; or, equipped with shield and assegais,\nleading in some murderous fight.  Yes, Jim was out of date: he should\nhave been one of the great Chaka's fighting guard--to rise as a leader\nof men, or be killed on the way.  He had but one argument and one answer\nto everything: Fight!  It was his nature, bred and born in him; it ran\nin his blood and grew in his bones.  He was a survival of a great\nfighting race--there are still thousands of them in the kraals of\nZululand and Swaziland--but it was his fate to belong to one of the\nexpelled families, and to have to live and work among the white men\nunder the Boer Government of the Transvaal.\n\nIn a fighting nation Jim's kraal was known as a fighting one, and the\nturbulent blood that ran in their veins could not settle down into a\nplacid stream merely because the Great White Queen had laid her hand\nupon his people and said, \"There shall be peace!\"  Chaka, the `black\nNapoleon' whose wars had cost South Africa over a million lives, had\ndied--murdered by his brother Dingaan--full of glory, lord and master\nwherever his impis could reach.  \"Dogs whom I fed at my kraal!\" he\ngasped, as they stabbed him.  Dingaan his successor, as cruel as\ntreacherous, had been crushed by the gallant little band of Boers under\nPotgieter for his fiendish massacre of Piet Retief and his little band.\nPanda the third of the three famous brothers--Panda the peaceful--had\ncome and gone!  Ketshwayo, after years of arrogant and unquestioned\nrule, had loosed his straining impis at the people of the Great White\nQueen.  The awful day of 'Sandhl'wana--where the 24th Regiment died\nalmost to a man--and the fight on H'lobani Mountain had blooded the\nimpis to madness; but Rorke's Drift and Kambula had followed those\nbloody victories--each within a few hours--to tell another tale; and at\nUlundi the tides met--the black and the white.  And the kingdom and\nmight of the house of Chaka were no more.\n\nJim had fought at 'Sandhl'wana, and could tell of an umfaan sent out to\nherd some cattle within sight of the British camp to draw the troops out\nraiding while the impis crept round by hill and bush and donga behind\nthem; of the fight made by the red-coats as, taken in detail, they were\nattacked hand to hand with stabbing assegais, ten and twenty to one; of\none man in blue--a sailor--who was the last to die, fighting with his\nback to a waggon-wheel against scores before him, and how he fell at\nlast, stabbed in the back through the spokes of the wheel by one who had\ncrept up behind.\n\nJim had fought at Rorke's Drift!  Wild with lust of blood, he had gone\non with the maddest of the victory-maddened lot to invade Natal and eat\nup the little garrison on the way.  He could tell how seventy or eighty\nwhite men behind a little rampart of biscuit-tins and flour-bags had\nfought through the long and terrible hours, beating off five thousand of\nthe Zulu best, fresh from a victory without parallel or precedent; how,\nfrom the burning hospital, Sergeant Hook, V.C., and others carried sick\nand wounded through the flames into the laager; how a man in black with\na long beard, Father Walsh, moved about with calm face, speaking to\nsome, helping others, carrying wounded back and cartridges forward--\nFather Walsh who said \"Don't swear, boys: fire low;\" how Lieutenants\nChard and Bromhead--V.C.s too for that day's work--led and fought, and\nguided and heartened their heroic little band until the flour-bags and\nbiscuit-tins stood lower than the pile of dead outside, and the Zulu\nhost was beaten and Natal saved that day.\n\nJim had seen all that--and Ulundi, the Day of Despair!  And he knew the\npower of the Great White Queen and the way that her people fight.  But\npeace was not for him or his kraal: better any fight than no fight.  He\nrallied to Usibepu in the fight for leadership when his King, Ketshwayo,\nwas gone, and Jim's kraal had moved--and moved too soon: they were\nsurrounded one night and massacred; and Jim fought his way out, wounded\nand alone.  Without kith or kin, cattle, king, or country, he fled to\nthe Transvaal--to work for the first time in his life!\n\nWaggon-boys--as the drivers were called--often acquired a certain amount\nof reputation on the road or in the locality where they worked; but it\nwas, as a rule, only a reputation as good or bad drivers.  In Jim's case\nit was different.  He was a character and had an individual reputation,\nwhich was exceptional in a Kaffir.  I had better say at once that not\neven his best friend would claim that that reputation was a good one.\nHe was known as the best driver, the strongest nigger, the hardest\nfighter, and the worst drinker on the road.\n\nHis real name was Makokela, but in accordance with a common Zulu habit,\nit was usually abbreviated to Makokel'!  Among a certain number of the\nwhite men--of the sort who never can get any name right--he was oddly\nenough known as McCorkindale.  I called him Jim as a rule--Makokel',\nwhen relations were strained.  The waggon-boys found it safer to use his\nproper name.  When anything had upset him it was not considered wise to\ntake the liberty of shouting \"Jim\": the answer sometimes came in the\nshape of a hammering.\n\nMany men had employed Jim before he came to me, and all had `sacked' him\nfor fighting, drinking, and the unbearable worry he caused.  They told\nme this, and said that he gave more trouble than his work was worth.  It\nmay have been true: he certainly was a living test of patience, purpose,\nand management; but, for something learnt in that way, I am glad now\nthat Jim never `got the sack' from me.  Why he did not, is not easy to\nsay; perhaps the circumstances under which he came to me and the hard\nknocks of an unkind fate pleaded for him.  But it was not that alone:\nthere was something in Jim himself--something good and fine, something\nthat shone out from time to time through his black skin and battered\nface as the soul of a real man.\n\nIt was in the first season in the Bushveld that we were outspanned one\nnight on the sand-hills overlooking Delagoa Bay among scores of other\nwaggons dotted about in little camps--all loading or waiting for loads\nto transport to the Transvaal.  Delagoa was not a good place to stay in,\nin those days: liquor was cheap and bad; there was very little in the\nway of law and order; and every one took care of himself as well as he\ncould.  The Kaffir kraals were close about the town, and the natives of\nthe place were as rascally a lot of thieves and vagabonds as you could\nfind anywhere.  The result was everlasting trouble with the waggon-boys\nand a chronic state of war between them and the natives and the banyans\nor Arab traders of the place.  The boys, with pockets full of wages,\nhaggled and were cheated in the stores, and by the hawkers, and in the\ncanteens; and they often ended up the night with beer-drinking at the\nkraals or reprisals on their enemies.  Every night there were fights and\nrobberies: the natives or Indians would rob and half-kill a waggon-boy;\nthen he in turn would rally his friends, and raid and clear out the\nkraal or the store.  Most of the waggon-boys were Zulus or of Zulu\ndescent, and they were always ready for a fight and would tackle any\nodds when their blood was up.\n\nIt was the third night of our stay, and the usual row was on.  Shouts\nand cries, the beating of tomtoms, and shrill ear-piercing whistles,\ncame from all sides; and through it all the dull hum of hundreds of\nhuman voices, all gabbling together.  Near to us there was another camp\nof four waggons drawn up in close order, and as we sat talking and\nwondering at the strange babel in the beautiful calm moonlight night,\none sound was ever recurring, coming away out of all the rest with\nsomething in it that fixed our attention.  It was the sound of two\nvoices from the next waggons.  One voice was a kaffir's--a great, deep,\nbull-throated voice; it was not raised--it was monotonously steady and\nlow; but it carried far, with the ring and the lingering vibration of a\nbig gong.\n\n\"Funa 'nyama, Inkos; funa 'nyama!\"  (\"I want meat, Chief; I want meat!\")\nwas what the kaffir's voice kept repeating at intervals of a minute or\ntwo with deadly monotony and persistency.\n\nThe white man's voice grew more impatient, louder, and angrier, with\neach refusal; but the boy paid no heed.  A few minutes later the same\nrequest would be made, supplemented now and then with, \"I am hungry,\nBaas, I can't sleep.  Meat!  Meat!  Meat!\" or, \"Porridge and bread are\nfor women and piccaninnies.  I am a man: I want meat, Baas, meat.\"  From\nthe white man it was, \"Go to sleep, I tell you!\"\n\n\"Be quiet, will you?\"\n\n\"Shut up that row!\"\n\n\"Be still, you drunken brute, or I'll tie you up!\" and \"You'll get\ntwenty-five in a minute!\"\n\nIt may have lasted half an hour when one of our party said, \"That's\nBob's old driver, the big Zulu.  There'll be a row to-night; he's with a\nforeigner chap from Natal now.  New chums are always roughest on the\nniggers.\"\n\nIn a flash I remembered Bob Saunderson's story of the boy who had caught\nthe lion alive, and Bob's own words, \"a real fine nigger, but a terror\nto drink, and always in trouble.  He fairly wore me right out.\"\n\nA few minutes later there was a short scuffle, and the boy's voice could\nbe heard protesting in the same deep low tone: they were tying him up to\nthe waggon-wheel for a flogging.  Others were helping the white man, but\nthe boy was not resisting.\n\nAt the second thin whistling stroke some one said, \"That's a sjambok\nhe's using, not a nek-strop!\"  Sjambok, that will cut a bullock's hide!\nAt about the eighth there was a wrench that made the waggon rattle, and\nthe deep voice was raised in protest, \"Ow, Inkos!\"\n\nIt made me choke: it was the first I knew of such things, and the horror\nof it was unbearable; but the man who had spoken before--a good man too,\nstraight and strong, and trusted by black and white--said, \"Sonny, you\nmust not interfere between a man and his boys here; it's hard sometimes,\nbut we'd not live a day if they didn't know who was baas.\"\n\nI think we counted eighteen; and then everything seemed going to burst.\n\n------------------------------------------------------------------------\n\nThe white man looked about at the faces close to him--and stopped.  He\nbegan slowly to untie the outstretched arms, and blustered out some\nthreats.  But no one said a word!\n\nThe noises died down as the night wore on, until the stillness was\nbroken only by the desultory barking of a kaffir dog or the crowing of\nsome awakened rooster who had mistaken the bright moonlight for the dawn\nand thought that all the world had overslept itself.  But for me there\nwas one other sound for which I listened into the cool of morning with\nthe quivering sensitiveness of a bruised nerve.  Sometimes it was a long\ncatchy sigh, and sometimes it broke into a groan just audible, like the\nfaintest rumble of most distant surf.  Twice in the long night there\ncame the same request to one of the boys near him, uttered in a deep\nclear unshaken voice and in a tone that was civil but firm, and\nstrangely moving from its quiet indifference.\n\n\"Landela manzi, Umganaam!\"  (\"Bring water, friend!\") was all he said;\nand each time the request was so quickly answered that I had the guilty\nfeeling of being one in a great conspiracy of silence.  The hush was\nunreal; the stillness alive with racing thoughts; the darkness full of\nwatching eyes.\n\nThere is, we believe, in the heart of every being a little germ of\njustice which men call conscience!  If that be so, there must have been\nin the heart of the white man that night some uneasy movement--the first\nlife-throb of the thought which one who had not yet written has since\nset down:\n\n  \"Though I've belted you and flayed you,\n  By the living God that made you,\n  You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!\"\n\n------------------------------------------------------------------------\n\nThe following afternoon I received an ultimatum.  We had just returned\nfrom the town when from a group of boys squatting round the fire there\nstood up one big fellow--a stranger--who raised his hand high above his\nhead in Zulu fashion and gave their salute in the deep bell-like voice\nthat there was no mistaking, \"Inkos!  Bayete!\"\n\nHe stepped forward, looking me all over, and announced with calm and\nsettled conviction, \"I have come to work for you!\"  I said nothing.\nThen he rapped a chest like a big drum, and nodding his head with a sort\nof defiant confidence added in quaint English, \"My naam Makokela!  Jim\nMakokel'!  Yes!  My catchum lion 'live!  Makokela, me!\"\n\nHe had heard that I wanted a driver, had waited for my return, and\nannexed me as his future `baas' without a moment's doubt or hesitation.\n\nI looked him over.  Big, broad-shouldered, loose-limbed, and as straight\nas an assegai!  A neck and head like a bull's; a face like a\nweather-beaten rock, storm-scarred and furrowed, rugged and ugly, but\nsteadfast, massive and strong!  So it looked then, and so it turned out:\nfor good and for evil Jim was strong.\n\nI nodded and said, \"You can come.\"\n\nOnce more he raised his head aloft, and, simply and without a trace of\nsurprise or gratification, said:\n\n\"Yes, you are my chief, I will work for you.\"  In his own mind it had\nbeen settled already: it had never been in doubt.\n\nJim--when sober--was a splendid worker and the most willing of servants,\nand, drunk or sober, he was always respectful in an independent,\nupstanding, hearty kind of way.  His manner was as rough and rugged as\nhis face and character; in his most peaceful moments it was--to one who\ndid not understand him--almost fierce and aggressive; but this was only\nskin deep; for the childlike simplicity of the African native was in him\nto the full, and rude bursts of Titanic laughter came readily--laughter\nas strong and unrestrained as his bursts of passion.\n\nTo the other boys he was what his nature and training had made him--not\nreally a bully, but masterful and over-riding.  He gave his orders with\nthe curtness of a drill sergeant and the rude assurance of a savage\nchief.  Walking, he walked his course, giving way for none of them.  At\nthe outspan or on the road or footpath he shouldered them aside as one\nwalks through standing corn, not aggressively but with the superb\nindifference of right and habit unquestioned.  If one, loitering before\nhim, blocked his way unseeing, there was no pause or step aside--just\n\"Suka!\"  (\"Get out\") and a push that looked effortless enough but sent\nthe offender staggering; or, if he had his sticks, more likely a smart\nwhack on the stern that was still more surprising; and not even the\ncompliment of a glance back from Jim as he stalked on.  He was like the\nold bull in a herd--he walked his course; none molested and none\ndisputed; the way opened before him.\n\nWhen sober Jim spoke Zulu; when drunk, he broke into the strangest and\nmost laughable medley of kitchen-Kaffir, bad Dutch, and worse English--\nthe idea being, in part to consider our meaner intelligences and in part\nto show what an accomplished linguist he was.  There was no difficulty\nin knowing when Jim would go wrong: he broke out whenever he got a\nchance, whether at a kraal, where he could always quicken the reluctant\nhospitality of any native, at a wayside canteen, or in a town.  Money\nwas fatal--he drank it all out; but want of money was no security, for\nhe was known to every one and seemed to have friends everywhere; and if\nhe had not, he made them on the spot--annexed and overwhelmed them.\n\nFrom time to time you do meet people like that.  The world's their\noyster, and the gift of a masterful and infinite confidence opens it\nevery time: they walk through life taking of the best as a right, and\nthe world unquestioningly submits.\n\nI had many troubles with Jim, but never on account of white men: drunk\nor sober, there was never trouble there.  It may have been Rorke's Drift\nand Ulundi that did it; but whatever it was, the question of black and\nwhite was settled in his mind for ever.  He was respectful, yet stood\nupright with the rough dignity of an unvanquished spirit; but on the one\ngreat issue he never raised his hand or voice again.  His troubles all\ncame from drink, and the exasperation was at times almost unbearable--so\ngreat, indeed, that on many occasions I heartily repented ever having\ntaken him on.  Warnings were useless, and punishment--well, the shiny\nnew skin that made patterns in lines and stars and crosses on his back\nfor the rest of his life made answer for always upon that point.\n\nThe trials and worries were often great indeed.  The trouble began as\nsoon as we reached a town, and he had a hundred excuses for going in,\nand a hundred more for not coming out: he had some one to see, boots to\nbe mended, clothes to buy, or medicine to get--the only illness I ever\nknew him have was `a pain inside,' and the only medicine wanted--grog!--\nsome one owed him money--a stock excuse, and the idea of Jim, always\npenniless and always in debt, posing as a creditor never failed to raise\na laugh, and he would shake his head with a half-fierce half-sad disgust\nat the general scepticism and his failure to convince me.  Then he had\nrelations in every town!  Jim, the sole survivor of his fighting kraal,\nproduced `blulus,' `babas,' `sisteles,' and even `mamas,' in profusion,\nand they died just before we reached the place, as regularly as the\noffice-boy's aunt dies before Derby Day, and with the same consequence--\nhe had to go to the funeral.\n\nThe first precaution was to keep him at the waggons and put the towns\nand canteens `out of bounds'; and the last defence, to banish him\nentirely until he came back sober, and meanwhile set other boys to do\nhis work, paying them his wages in cash in his presence when he returned\nfit for duty.\n\n\"Is it as I told you?  Is it just?\"  I would ask when this was done.\n\n\"It is just, Inkos,\" he would answer with a calm dispassionate\nsimplicity which appealed for forgiveness and confidence with far\ngreater force than any repentance; and it did so because it was genuine;\nit was natural and unstudied.  There was never a trace of feeling to be\ndetected when these affairs were squared off, but I knew how he hated\nthe treatment, and it helped a little from time to time to keep him\nright.\n\nThe banishing of him from the waggons in order that he might go away and\nhave it over was not a device to save myself trouble, and I did it only\nwhen it was clear that he could stand the strain no longer.  It was\nsimply a choice of evils, and it seemed to me better to let him go,\nclearly understanding the conditions, than drive him into breaking away\nwith the bad results to him and the bad effects on the others of\ndisobeying orders.  It was, as a rule, far indeed from saving me\ntrouble, for after the first bout of drinking he almost invariably found\nhis way back to the waggons: the drink always produced a ravenous\ncraving for meat, and when his money was gone and he had fought his fill\nand cleared out all opposition, he would come back to the waggons at any\nhour of the night, perhaps even two or three times between dark and\ndawn, to beg for meat.  Warnings and orders had no effect whatever; he\nwas unconscious of everything except the overmastering craving for meat.\nHe would come to my waggon and begin that deadly monotonous recitation,\n\"Funa 'nyama, Inkos!  Wanta meat, Baas!\"  There was a kind of hopeless\ndetermination in the tone conveying complete indifference to all\nconsequences: meat he must have.  He was perfectly respectful; every\norder to be quiet or go away or go to bed was received with the formal\nraising of the hand aloft, the most respectful of salutations, and the\nassenting, \"Inkos!\" but in the very next breath would come the old\nmonotonous request, \"Funa 'nyama, Inkos,\" just as if he was saying it\nfor the first time.  The persistency was awful--it was maddening; and\nthere was no remedy, for it was not the result of voluntary or even\nconscious effort on his part; it was a sort of automatic process, a\nresult of his physical condition.  Had he known it would cost him his\nlife, he could no more have resisted it than have resisted breathing.\n\nWhen the meat was there I gave it, and he would sit by the fire for\nhours eating incredible quantities--cutting it off in slabs and\ndevouring it when not much more than warmed.  But it was not always\npossible to satisfy him in that way; meat was expensive in the towns and\noften we had none at all at the waggons.  Then the night became one long\ntorment: the spells of rest might extend from a quarter of an hour to an\nhour; then from the dead sleep of downright weariness I would be roused\nby the deep far-reaching voice; \"Funa 'nyama, Inkos\" wove itself into my\ndreams, and waking I would find Jim standing beside me remorselessly\nurging the same request in Zulu, in broken English, and in Dutch--\"My\nwanta meat, Baas,\" \"Wil fleisch krij, Baas,\" and the old, old, hatefully\nfamiliar explanation of the difference between \"man's food\" and\n\"piccanins' food,\" interspersed with grandiose declarations that he was\n\"Makokela--Jim Makokel',\" who \"catchum lion 'live.\"  Sometimes he would\nexpand this into comparisons between himself and the other boys, much to\ntheir disadvantage; and on these occasions he invariably worked round to\nhis private grievances, and expressed his candid opinions of Sam.\n\nSam was the boy whom I usually set to do Jim's neglected work.  He was a\n`mission boy,' that is a Christian kaffir--very proper in his behaviour,\nbut a weakling and not much good at work.  Jim would enumerate all Sam's\nshortcomings; how he got his oxen mixed up on dark nights and could not\npick them out of the herd--a quite unpardonable offence; how he stuck in\nthe drifts and had to be `double-spanned' and pulled out by Jim; how he\nonce lost his way in the bush; and how he upset the waggon coming down\nthe Devil's Shoot.\n\nJim had once brought down the Berg from Spitzkop a loaded waggon on\nwhich there was a cottage piano packed standing upright.  The road was\nan awful one, it is true, and few drivers could have handled so\ntop-heavy a load without capsizing--he had received a bansela for his\nskill--but to him the feat was one without parallel in the history of\nwaggon driving; and when drunk he usually coupled it with his other\ngreat achievement of catching a lion alive.  His contempt for Sam's\nmisadventure on the Devil's Shoot was therefore great, and to it was\nadded resentment against Sam's respectability and superior education,\nwhich the latter was able to rub in in safety by ostentatiously reading\nhis Bible aloud at nights as they sat round the fire.  Jim was a\nheathen, and openly affirmed his conviction that a Christian kaffir was\nan impostor, a bastard, and a hypocrite--a thing not to be trusted under\nany circumstances whatever.  The end of his morose outburst was always\nthe same.  When his detailed indictment of Sam was completed he would\nwind up with, \"My catchum lion 'live.  My bling panyanna fon Diskop (I\nbring piano from Spitzkop).  My naam Makokela: Jim Makokel'.  Sam no\ngood; Sam leada Bible (Sam reads the Bible).  Sam no good!\"  The\nintensity of conviction and the gloomy disgust put into the last\nreference to Sam are not to be expressed in words.\n\nWhere warning and punishment availed nothing threats would have been\nworse than foolish.  Once, when he had broken bounds and left the\nwaggons, I threatened that if he did it again I would tie him up, since\nhe was like a dog that could not be trusted; and I did it.  He had no\nexcuse but the old ones; some one, he said, had brought him liquor to\nthe waggons and he had not known what he was doing.  The truth was that\nthe craving grew so with the nearer prospect of drink that by hook or by\ncrook he would find some one, a passerby or a boy from other waggons, to\nfetch some for him; and after that nothing could hold him.\n\nIf Jim ever wavered in his loyalty to me, it must have been the day I\ntied him up: he must have been very near hating me then.  I had caught\nhim as he was leaving the waggons and still sober; brought him back and\ntold him to sit under his own waggon where I would tie him up like a\ndog.  I took a piece of sail twine, tied it to one wrist, and, fastening\nthe other end to the waggon-wheel, left him.\n\nA kaffir's face becomes, when he wishes it, quite inscrutable--as\nexpressionless as a blank wall.  But there are exceptions to every rule;\nand Jim's stoicism was not equal to this occasion.  The look of\nunspeakable disgust and humiliation on his face was more than I could\nbear with comfort; and after half an hour or so in the pillory I\nreleased him.  He did not say a word, but, heedless of the hot sun,\nrolled himself in his blankets and, sleeping or not, never moved for the\nrest of the day.\n\n\nCHAPTER THIRTEEN.\n\nTHE ALLIES.\n\nJock disliked kaffirs: so did Jim.  To Jim there were three big\ndivisions of the human race--white men, Zulus, and niggers.  Zulu, old\nor young, was greeted by him as equal, friend and comrade; but the rest\nwere trash, and he cherished a most particular contempt for the\nShangaans and Chopis, as a lot who were just about good enough for what\nthey did--that is, work in the mines.  They could neither fight nor\nhandle animals; and the sight of them stirred him to contempt and\npricked him to hostilities.\n\nIt was not long before Jim discovered this bond of sympathy between him\nand Jock, and I am perfectly sure that the one bad habit which Jock was\nnever cured of was due to deliberate encouragement from Jim on every\npossible opportunity.  It would have been a matter of difficulty and\npatience in any case to teach Jock not to unnecessarily attack strange\nkaffirs.  It was very important that he should have nothing to do with\nthem, and should treat them with suspicion as possible enemies and keep\nthem off the premises.  I was glad that he did it by his own choice and\ninstinct; but this being so, it needed all the more intelligence and\ntraining to get him to understand just where to draw the line.  Jim made\nit worse; he made the already difficult task practically impossible by\negging Jock on; and what finally made it quite impossible was the\nextremely funny turn it took, which caused such general amusement that\nevery one joined in the conspiracy and backed up Jock.\n\nEvery one knows how laughable it is to see a person dancing about like a\nmad dervish, with legs and arms going in all directions, dodging the\nrushes of a dog, especially if the spectator knows that the dog will not\ndo any real harm and is more intent on scaring his victim, just for the\nfun of the thing, than on hunting him.  Well, that is how it began.\n\nAs far as I know the first incident arose out of the intrusion of a\nstrange kaffir at one of the outspans.  Jock objected, and he was\nforcing a scared boy back step by step--doing the same feinting rushes\nthat he practised with game--until the boy tripped over a camp stool and\nsat plump down on the three-legged pot of porridge cooking at the camp\nfire.  I did not see it; for Jock was, as usual, quite silent--a feature\nwhich always had a most terrifying effect on his victims: it was a roar\nlike a lion's from Jim that roused me.  Jock was standing off with his\nfeet on the move forwards and backwards, his head on one side and his\nface full of interest, as if he would dearly love another romp in; and\nthe waggon-boys were reeling and rolling about the grass, helpless with\nlaughter.\n\nA dog is just as quick as a child to find out when he can take\nliberties; he knows that laughter and serious disapproval do not go\ntogether; and Jock with the backing of the boys thoroughly enjoyed\nhim-self.  That was how it began; and by degrees it developed into the\ngreat practical joke.  The curious thing to note was the way in which\nJock entered into the spirit of the thing, and how he improved and\nvaried his methods.  It was never certain what he would do; sometimes it\nwould be a wild romp, as it was that day; at other times he would stalk\nthe intruder in the open, much as a pointer approaches his birds in the\nlast strides, and with eyes fixed steadily and mouth tightly pursed-up,\nhe would move straight at him with infinite slowness and deliberation\nuntil, the boy's nerve failed, and he turned and ran.  At other times\nagain he trotted out as if he had seen nothing, and then stopped\nsuddenly.  If the boy came on, Jock waited; but if there was any sign of\nfear or hesitation, he lowered his head, humped up his shoulders--as a\nstagey boxer does when he wants to appear ferocious--and gave his head a\nkind of chuck forward, as if in the act of charging: this seldom failed\nto shake the intruder's nerve, and as soon as he turned or backed, the\nromp began.  Still another trick was to make a round in the bush and\ncome up behind unobserved, and then make a furious dash with rumbly\ngurgly growls; the startled boy invariably dropped all he had, breaking\ninto a series of fantastic capers and excited yells, to the huge delight\nof Jim and the others.\n\nBut these things were considered trifles: the piece that always `brought\nthe house down' was the Shangaan gang trick, which on one occasion\nnearly got us all into serious trouble.  The natives going to or from\nthe goldfields travel in gangs of from four or five to forty or fifty;\nthey walk along in Indian-file, and even when going across the veld or\nwalking on wide roads they wind along singly in the footsteps of the\nleader.  What prompted the dog to start this new game I cannot imagine:\ncertainly no one could have taught it to him; and as well as one could\njudge, he did it entirely `off his own bat,' without anything to lead up\nto or suggest it.\n\nOne day a gang of about thirty of these Shangaans, each carrying his\nload of blankets, clothing, pots, billies and other valuables on his\nhead, was coming along a footpath beside the road some twenty yards away\nfrom the waggons.  Jock strolled out and sat himself down in the middle\nof the path; it was the way he did it and his air, utterly devoid of\nhostile or even serious purpose, that attracted my attention without\nrousing any doubts.  The leader of the gang, however, was suspicious and\nshied off wide into the veld; he passed in a semicircle round Jock, a\ngood ten yards away, and came safely back to the path again, and the dog\nwith his nose in the air merely eyed him with a look of humorous\ninterest and mild curiosity.  The second kaffir made the loop shorter,\nand the third shorter still, as they found their alarm and suspicions\nunjustified; and so on, as each came along, the loop was lessened until\nthey passed in safety almost brushing against Jock's nose.  And still he\nnever budged--never moved--except, as each boy approached, to look up at\nhis face and, slowly turning his head, follow him round with his eyes\nuntil he re-entered the path.  There was something extremely funny in\nthe mechanical regularity with which his head swung round.  It was so\nfunny that not only the boys at the waggons noticed it and laughed; the\nunsuspecting Shangaans themselves shared the joke.  When half a dozen\nhad passed round in safety, comments followed by grunts of agreement or\nlaughter ran along the line, and then, as each fresh boy passed and\nJock's calm inspection was repeated, a regular chorus of guffaws and\nremarks broke out.  The long heavy bundles on their heads made turning\nround a slow process, so that, except for the first half-dozen, they\nwere content to enjoy what they saw in front and to know by the laughter\nfrom behind that the joke had been repeated all down the line.\n\nThe last one walked calmly by; but as he did so there came one short\nmuffled bark, \"Whoop!\" from Jock as he sprang out and nipped the\nunsuspecting Shangaan behind.  The boy let out a yell that made the\nwhole gang jump and clutch wildly at their toppling bundles, and Jock\nraced along the footpath, leaping, gurgling and snapping behind each one\nhe came near, scattering them this way and that, in a romp of wild\nenjoyment.  The shouts of the scared boys, the clatter of the tins as\ntheir bundles toppled down, the scrambling and scratching as they clawed\nthe ground pretending to pick up stones or sticks to stop his rushes,\nand the ridiculous rout of the thirty Shangaans in every direction,\nabandoning their baggage and fleeing from the little red enemy only just\nvisible in the grass as he hunted and harried them, were too much for my\nprinciples and far too much for my gravity.  To be quite honest, I\nweakened badly, and from that day on preferred to look another way when\nJock sallied out to inspect a gang of Shangaans.  Between them, Jim and\nJock had beaten me.\n\nBut the weakening brought its own punishment and the joke was not far\nfrom making a tragedy.  Many times while lying some way off in the shade\nof a tree or under another waggon I heard Jim, all unconscious of my\npresence, call in a low deep voice, almost a whisper, \"Jock, Jock;\nkaffirs; Shangaans!\"  Jock's head was up in a moment, and a romp of some\nsort followed unless I intervened.  Afterwards, when Jock was deaf, Jim\nused to reach out and pull his foot or throw a handful of sand or a\nbunch of grass to rouse him, and when Jock's head switched up Jim's big\nblack fist pointing to their common enemy was quite enough.\n\nJim had his faults, but getting others into mischief while keeping out\nof it himself was not one of them.  If he egged Jock on, he was more\nthan ready to stand by him, and on these occasions his first act was to\njump for his sticks, which were always pretty handy, and lie in\nreadiness to take a hand if any of the gang should use what he\nconsidered unfair means of defence, such as throwing stones and kerries\nor using assegais or knives; and Jim--the friend of Jock, the avoided\nenemy of all Shangaans, aching for an excuse to take a hand in the row\nhimself--was not, I fear, a very impartial judge.\n\nThere was a day outside Barberton which I remember well.  We were to\nstart that evening, and knowing that if Jim got into the town he might\nnot be back and fit to work for days, I made him stay with the waggons.\nHe lay there flat out under his waggon with his chin resting on his\narms, staring steadily at the glistening corrugated iron roofs of the\ntown, as morose and unapproachable as a surly old watch-dog.  From the\ntent of my waggon I saw him raise his head, and following his glance,\npicked out a row of bundles against the sky-line.  Presently a long\nstring of about fifty time-expired mine-boys came in sight.  Jim on his\nhands and knees scrambled over to where Jock lay asleep, and shook him;\nfor this incident occurred after Jock had become deaf.\n\n\"Shangaans, Jock; Shangaans!  Kill them; kill, kill, kill!\" said Jim in\ngusty ferocious whispers.  It must have seemed as if Fate had kindly\nprovided an outlet for the rebellious rage and the craving for a fight\nthat were consuming him.\n\nAs Jock trotted out to head them off Jim reached up to the buck-rails\nand pulled down his bundle of sticks and lay down like a tiger on the\nspring.  I had had a lot of trouble with Jim that day, and this annoyed\nme; but my angry call to stop was unavailing.  Jim, pretending not to\nunderstand, made no attempt to stop Jock, but contented himself with\ncalling to him to come back; and Jock, stone deaf, trotted evenly along\nwith his head, neck, back, and tail, all level--an old trick of Jess's\nwhich generally meant trouble for some one.  Slowing down as he neared\nthe Shangaans he walked quietly on until he headed off the leader, and\nthere he stood across the path.  It was just the same as before: the\nboys, finding that he did nothing, merely stepped aside to avoid bumping\nagainst him.  They were boys taking back their purchases to their kraals\nto dazzle the eyes of the ignorant with the wonders of civilisation--\ngaudy blankets, collections of bright tin billies and mugs, tin plates,\nthree-legged pots, clothing, hats, and even small tin trunks painted\nbrilliant yellow, helped to make up their huge bundles.  The last boy\nwas wearing a pair of Royal Artillery trousers; and I have no doubt he\nregarded it ever afterwards as nothing less than a calamity that they\nwere not safely stowed away in his bundle--for a kaffir would sacrifice\nhis skin rather than his new pants any day.  It was from the seat of\nthese too ample bags that Jock took a good mouthful; and it was the\nboy's frantic jump, rather than Jock's tug, that made the piece come\nout.  The sudden fright and the attempts to face about quickly caused\nseveral downfalls; the clatter of these spread the panic; and on top of\nit all came Jock's charge along the broken line, and the excited shouts\nof those who thought they were going to be worried to death.\n\nJim had burst into great bellows of laughter and excited--but quite\nsuperfluous--shouts of encouragement to Jock, who could not have heard a\ntrumpet at ten yards.\n\nBut there came a very unexpected change.  One big Shangaan had drawn\nfrom his bundle a brand new side-axe: I saw the bright steel head flash,\nas he held it menacingly aloft by the short handle and marched towards\nJock.  There was a scrambling bound from under the waggon, and Jim, with\nface distorted and grey with fury, rushed out.  In his right hand he\nbrandished a tough stout fighting stick; in his left I was horrified to\nsee an assegai, and well I knew that, with the fighting fury on him, he\nwould think nothing of using it.  The Shangaan saw him coming, and\nstopped; then, still facing Jim, and with the axe raised and feinting\nrepeatedly to throw it, he began to back away.  Jim never paused for a\nsecond: he came straight on with wild leaps and blood-curdling yells in\nZulu fighting fashion and ended with a bound that seemed to drop him\nright on top of the other.  The stick came down with a whirr and a crash\nthat crimped every nerve in my body; and the Shangaan dropped like a\nlog.\n\nI had shouted myself hoarse at Jim, but he heard or heeded nothing; and\nseizing a stick from one of the other boys I was already on the way to\nstop him, but before I got near him he had wrenched the axe from the\nkicking boy and, without pause, gone headlong for the next Shangaan he\nsaw.  Then everything went wrong: the more I shouted and the harder I\nran, the worse the row.  The Shangaans seemed to think I had joined in\nand was directing operations against them: Jim seemed to be inspired to\nwilder madness by my shouts and gesticulations; and Jock--well, Jock at\nany rate had not the remotest doubt as to what he should do.  When he\nsaw me and Jim in full chase behind him, his plain duty was to go in for\nall he was worth; and he did it.\n\nIt was half an hour before I got that mad savage back.  He was as\nunmanageable as a runaway horse.  He had walloped the majority of the\nfifty himself; he had broken his own two sticks and used up a number of\ntheirs; on his forehead there was a small cut and a lump like half an\norange; and on the back of his head another cut left by the sticks of\nthe enemy when eight or ten had rallied once in a half-hearted attempt\nto stand against him.\n\nIt was strange how Jim, even in that mood, yielded to the touch of one\nwhom he regarded as his \"Inkos.\"  I could not have forced him back: in\nthat maniac condition it would have needed a powerful combination indeed\nto bring him back against his will.  He yielded to the light grip of my\nhand on his wrist and walked freely along with me; but a fiery bounding\nvitality possessed him, and with long springy strides he stepped out--\nlooking excitedly about, turning to right and left or even right about,\nand stepping sideways or even backwards to keep pace with me--yet always\nyielding the imprisoned arm so as not to pull me about.  And all the\ntime there came from him a torrent of excited gabble in pure Zulu, too\nfast and too high-flown for me to follow, which was punctuated and\nparagraphed by bursting allusions to `dogs of Shangaans,' `axes,'\n`sticks,' and `Jock.'\n\nNear the waggons we passed over the `battlefield,' and a huge guffaw of\nlaughter broke from Jim as we came on the abandoned impedimenta of the\ndefeated enemy.  Several of the bundles had burst open from the violence\nof the fall, and the odd collections of the natives were scattered\nabout; others had merely shed the outside luggage of tin billies,\nbeakers, pans, boots and hats.  Jim looked on it all as the spoils of\nwar, wanting to stop and gather in his loot there and then, and when I\npressed on, he shouted to the other drivers to come out and collect the\nbooty.\n\nBut my chief anxiety was to end the wretched escapade as quickly as\npossible and get the Shangaans on their way again; so I sent Jim back to\nhis place under the waggon, and told the cook-boy to give him the rest\nof my coffee and half a cup of sugar to provide him with something else\nto think of and to calm him down.\n\nAfter a wait of half an hour or so, a head appeared just over the rise,\nand then another and another, at irregular intervals and at various\npoints: they were scouting very cautiously before venturing back again.\nI sat in the tent-waggon out of sight and kept quiet, hoping that in a\nfew minutes they would gain confidence, collect their goods, and go\ntheir way again.  Jim, lying flat under the waggon, was much lower than\nI was, and--continuing his gabble to the other boys--saw nothing.\nUnfortunately he looked round just as a scared face peered cautiously\nover the top of an ant-heap.  The temptation was, I suppose,\nirresistible: he scrambled to his knees with a pretence of starting\nafresh and let out one ferocious yell that made my hair stand up; and in\nthat second every head bobbed down and the field was deserted once more.\n\nIf this went on there could be but one ending: the police would be\nappealed to, Jim arrested, and I should spend days hanging about the\ncourts waiting for a trial from which the noble Jim would probably\nemerge with three months' hard labour; so I sallied out as my own herald\nof peace.  But the position was more difficult than it looked: as soon\nas the Shangaans saw my head appearing over the rise, they scattered\nlike chaff before the wind, and ran as if they would never stop.  They\nevidently took me for the advance guard in a fresh attack, and from the\nway they ran seemed to suspect that Jim and Jock might be doing separate\nflanking movements to cut them off.  I stood upon an ant-heap and waved\nand called, but each shout resulted in a fresh spurt and each movement\nonly made them more suspicious.  It seemed a hopeless case, and I gave\nit up.\n\nOn the way back to the waggons, however, I thought of Sam--Sam, with his\nneatly patched European clothes, with the slouchy heavy-footed walk of a\nnigger in boots, with his slack lanky figure and serious timid face!\nSam would surely be the right envoy; even the routed Shangaans would\nfeel that there was nothing to fear there.  But Sam was by no means\nanxious to earn laurels; he was clearly of the poet's view that \"the\npaths of glory lead but to the grave;\" and it was a poor-looking\nweak-kneed and much dejected scarecrow that dragged its way reluctantly\nout into the veld to hold parley with the routed enemy that day.\n\nAt the first mention of Sam's name Jim had twitched round with a snort,\nbut the humour of the situation tickled him when he saw the too obvious\nreluctance with which his rival received the honour conferred on him.\nBetween rough gusts of laughter Jim rained on him crude ridicule and\nrude comments; and Sam slouched off with head bent, relieving his heart\nwith occasional clicks and low murmurs of disgust.  How far the new\nherald would have ventured, if he had not received most unexpected\nencouragement, is a matter for speculation.  Jim's last shout was to\nadvise him not to hide in an ant-bear hole; but, to Sam's relief, the\nShangaans seemed to view him merely as a decoy, even more dangerous than\nI was; for, as no one else appeared, they had now no idea at all from\nwhich quarter the expected attack would come.  They were widely\nscattered more than half a mile away when Sam came in sight; a brief\npause followed in which they looked anxiously around, and then, after\nsome aimless dashes about like a startled troop of buck, they seemed to\nfind the line of flight and headed off in a long string down the valley\ntowards the river.\n\nNow, no one had ever run away from Sam before, and the exhilarating\nsight so encouraged him that he marched boldly on after them.  Goodness\nknows when, if ever, they would have stopped, if Sam had not met a\ncouple of other natives whom the Shangaans had passed and induced them\nto turn back and reassure the fugitives.\n\nAn hour later Sam came back in mild triumph, at the head of the Shangaan\ngang; and, `clothed in a little brief authority,' stood guard and\nsuperintended while they collected their scattered goods--all except the\naxe that caused the trouble.  That they failed to find.  The owner may\nhave thought it wise to make no claim on me; Sam, if he remembered it,\nwould have seen the Shangaans and all their belongings burned in a pile\nrather than raise so delicate a question with Jim; I had forgotten all\nabout it--being anxious only to end the trouble and get the Shangaans\noff; and that villain Jim `lay low.'  At the first outspan from\nBarberton next day I saw him carving his mark on the handle, unabashed,\nunder my very nose.\n\nThe next time Jim got drunk he added something to his opinion of Sam:\n\n\"Sam no good: Sam leada Bible!  Shangaan, Sam; Shangaan!\"\n\n\nCHAPTER FOURTEEN.\n\nTHE BERG.\n\nThe last day of each trip in the Bush veld was always a day of trial and\nhard work for man and beast.  The Berg stood up before us like an\nimpassable barrier.  Looked at from below the prospect was despairing--\nfrom above, appalling.  There was no road that the eye could follow.\nHere and there a broad furrowed streak of red soil straight down some\nsteep grass-covered spur was visible: it looked like a mountain\ntimber-slide or the scour of some tropical storm; and that was all one\ncould see of it from below.  For perhaps a week the towering bulwarks of\nthe High veld were visible as we toiled along--at first only in\noccasional hazy glimpses, then daily clearer higher and grander, as the\ngreat barrier it was.\n\nAfter many hard treks through the broken foothills, with their rocky\nsideling slopes and boulder-strewn torrent beds, at last the Berg itself\nwas reached.  There, on a flat-topped terrace-like spur where the last\noutspan was, we took breath, halved our loads, double-spanned, and\npulled ourselves together for the last big climb.\n\nFrom there the scoured red streaks stood out revealed as road tracks--\nfor, made road there was none; from there, lines of whitish rock and\nloose stones and big boulders, that one had taken for the beds of\nmountain torrents, stood revealed as bits of `road,' linking up some of\nthe broken sections of the route; but even from there not nearly all the\ntrack was visible.  The bumpy rumbling and heavy clattering of waggons\non the rocky trail, the shouts of drivers and the crack of whips, mixed\nwith confusing echoes from somewhere above, set one puzzling and\nsearching higher still.  Then in unexpected places here and there other\nwaggons would be seen against the shadowy mountains, creeping up with\ninfinite labour foot by foot, tacking at all sorts of angles, winding by\nundetected spur and slope and ridge towards the summit--the long spans\nof oxen and the bulky loads, dwarfed into miniature by the vast\nbackground, looking like snails upon a face of rock.\n\nTo those who do not know, there is not much difference between spans of\noxen; and the driving of them seems merely a matter of brute strength in\narm and lung.  One span looks like another; and the weird unearthly\nyells of the drivers, the cracks--like rifle-shots--of the long lashes,\nand the hum and thud of the more cruel doubled whip, seem to be all that\nis needed.  But it is not so: heart and training in the cattle, skill\nand judgment in the driver, are needed there; for the Berg is a\nsearching test of man and beast.  Some, double-spanned and relieved of\nhalf their three-ton loads, will stick for a whole day where the pull is\nsteepest, the road too narrow to swing the spans, and the curves too\nsharp to let the fifteen couples of bewildered and despairing oxen get a\nstraight pull; whilst others will pass along slowly but steadily and\nwithout check, knowing what each beast will do and stand, when to urge\nand when to ease it, when and where to stop them for a blow, and how to\nget them all leaning to the yoke, ready and willing for the `heave\ntogether' that is essential for restarting a heavy load against such a\nhill.  Patience, understanding, judgment, and decision: those are the\nqualities it calls for, and here again the white man justifies his claim\nto lead and rule; for, although they are as ten or twenty to one, there\nis not a native driver who can compare with the best of the white men.\n\nIt was on the Berg that I first saw what a really first-class man can\ndo.  There were many waggons facing the pass that day; portions of\nloads, dumped off to ease the pull, dotted the roadside; tangles of\ndisordered maddened spans blocked the way; and fragments of yokes,\nskeys, strops, and reims, and broken disselbooms, told the tale of\ntrouble.\n\nOld Charlie Roberts came along with his two waggons.  He was `old' with\nus--being nearly fifty; he was also stout and in poor health.  We buried\nhim at Pilgrim's Rest a week later: the cold, clear air on top of the\nBerg that night, when he brought the last load up, brought out the\nfever.  It was his last trek.\n\nHe walked slowly up past us, to \"take a squint at things,\" as he put it,\nand see if it was possible to get past the stuck waggons; and a little\nlater he started, making three loads of his two and going up with single\nspans of eighteen oxen each, because the other waggons, stuck in various\nplaces on the road, did not give him room to work double-spans.  To us\nit seemed madness to attempt with eighteen oxen a harder task than we\nand others were essaying with thirty; we would have waited until the\nroad ahead was clear.\n\nWe were half-way up when we saw old Charlie coming along steadily and\nwithout any fuss at all.  He had no second driver to help him; he did no\nshouting; he walked along heavily and with difficulty beside the span,\nplaying the long whip lightly about as he gave the word to go or called\nquietly to individual oxen by name, but he did not touch them; and when\nhe paused to `blow' them he leaned heavily on his whip-stick to rest\nhimself.  We were stopped by some break in the gear and were completely\nblocking the road when he caught up.  Any one else would have waited: he\npulled out into the rough sideling track on the slope below, to pass us.\nEven a good span with a good driver may well come to grief in trying to\npass another that is stuck--for the sight and example are demoralising--\nbut old Charlie did not turn a hair; he went steadily on, giving a\nbrisker call and touching up his oxen here and there with light flicks.\nThey used to say he could kill a fly on a front ox or on the toe of his\nown boot with the voorslag of his big whip.\n\nThe track he took was merely the scorings made by skidding waggons\ncoming down the mountain; it was so steep and rough there that a pull of\nten yards between the spells for breath was all one could hope for; and\nmany were thankful to have done much less.  At the second pause, as they\nwere passing us, one of his oxen turned, leaning inwards against the\nchain, and looked back.  Old Charlie remarked quietly, \"I thought he\nwould chuck it; only bought him last week.  He's got no heart.\"\n\nHe walked along the span up to the shirking animal, which continued to\nglare back at him in a frightened way, and touched it behind with the\nbutt of his long whip-stick to bring it up to the yoke.  The ox started\nforward into place with a jerk, but eased back again slightly as Charlie\nwent back to his place near the after-oxen.  Once more the span went on\nand the shirker got a smart reminder as Charlie gave the call to start,\nand he warmed it up well as a lesson while they pulled.  At the next\nstop it lay back worse than before.\n\nNot one driver in a hundred would have done then what he did: they would\nhave tried other courses first.  Charlie dropped his whip quietly and\noutspanned the ox and its mate, saying to me as I gave him a hand:\n\n\"When I strike a rotter, I chuck him out before he spoils the others!\"\nIn another ten minutes he and his stalwarts had left us behind.\n\nOld Charlie knew his oxen--each one of them, their characters and what\nthey could do.  I think he loved them too; at any rate, it was his care\nfor them that day--handling them himself instead of leaving it to his\nboys--that killed him.\n\nOther men had other methods.  Some are by nature brutal; others, only\nundiscerning or impatient.  Most of them sooner or later realise that\nthey are only harming themselves by ill-treating their own cattle; and\nthat is one--but only the meanest--reason why the white man learns to\ndrive better than the native, who seldom owns the span he drives; the\nbetter and bigger reasons belong to the qualities of race and the\neffects of civilisation.  But, with all this, experience is as essential\nas ever; a beginner has no balanced judgment, and that explains\nsomething that I heard an old transport-rider say in the earliest days--\nsomething which I did not understand then, and heard with resentment and\na boy's uppish scorn.\n\n\"The Lord help the beginner's boys and bullocks: starts by pettin', and\nends by killin'.  Too clever to learn; too young to own up; swearin' and\nsloggin' all the time; and never sets down to _think_ until the boys are\ngone and the bullocks done!\"\n\nI felt hot all over, but had learned enough to keep quiet; besides, the\nhit was not meant for me, although the tip, I believe, was: the hit was\nat some one else who had just left us--one who had been given a start\nbefore he had gained experience and, naturally, was then busy making a\nmess of things himself and laying down the law for others.  It was when\nthe offender had gone that the old transport-rider took up the general\nquestion and finished his observations with a proverb which I had not\nheard before--perhaps invented it:\n\n\"Yah!\" he said, rising and stretching himself, \"there's no rule for a\nyoung fool.\"\n\nI did not quite know what he meant, and it seemed safer not to inquire.\n\nThe driving of bullocks is not an exalted occupation: it is a very\nhumble calling indeed; yet, if one is able to learn, there are things\nworth learning in that useful school.  But it is not good to stay at\nschool all one's life.\n\nBrains and character tell there as everywhere; experience only gives\nthem scope; it is not a substitute.  The men themselves would not tell\nyou so; they never trouble themselves with introspections and analyses,\nand if you asked one of them the secret of success, he might tell you\n\"Commonsense and hard work,\" or curtly give you the maxims `Watch it,'\nand `Stick to it'--which to him express the whole creed, and to you, I\nsuppose, convey nothing.  Among themselves, when the prime topics of\nloads, rates, grass, water and disease have been disposed of, there is\nas much interest in talking about their own and each other's oxen as\nthere is in babies at a mothers' meeting.  Spans are compared;\nindividual oxen discussed in minute detail; and the reputations of\n`front oxen,' in pairs or singly, are canvassed as earnestly as the\nimportance of the subject warrants--for, \"The front oxen are half the\nspan,\" they say.  The simple fact is that they `talk shop,' and when you\nhear them discussing the characters and qualities of each individual\nanimal you may be tempted to smile in a superior way, but it will not\neventually escape you that they think and observe, and that they study\ntheir animals and reason out what to do to make the most of them; and\nwhen they preach patience, consistency and purpose, it is the fruit of\nmuch experience, and nothing more than what the best of them practise.\n\nEvery class has its world; each one's world--however small--is a whole\nworld, and therefore a big world; for the little things are magnified\nand seem big, which is much the same thing: Crusoe's island was a world\nto him and he got as much satisfaction out of it as Alexander or\nNapoleon--probably a great deal more.  The little world is less\ncomplicated than the big, but the factors do not vary; and so it may be\nthat the simpler the calling, the more clearly apparent are the working\nof principles and the relations of cause and effect.  It was so with us.\nTo you, as a beginner, there surely comes a day when things get out of\nhand and your span, which was a good one when you bought it, goes wrong:\nthe load is not too heavy; the hill not too steep; the work is not\nbeyond them for they have done it all before; but now no power on earth,\nit seems, will make them face the pull.  Some jib and pull back; some\nbellow and thrust across; some stand out or swerve under the chain; some\nturn tail to front, half choked by the twisted strops, the worn-out\nfront oxen turn and charge downhill; and all are half frantic with\nexcitement, bewilderment or terror.  The constant shouting, the battle\nwith refractory animals, the work with the whip, and the hopeless chaos\nand failure, have just about done you up; and then some one--who knows--\ncomes along, and, because you block the way where he would pass and he\ncan see what is wrong, offers to give a hand.  Dropping his whip he\nmoves the front oxen to where the foothold is best and a straight pull\nis possible; then walks up and down the team a couple of times talking\nto the oxen and getting them into place, using his hand to prod them up\nwithout frightening them, until he has the sixteen standing as true as\nsoldiers on parade--their excitement calmed, their confidence won, and\ntheir attention given to him.  Then, one word of encouragement and one\nclear call to start, and the sixteen lean forward like one, the waggon\nlifts and heaves, and out it goes with a rattle and rush.\n\nIt looks magical in its simplicity; but no lecturer is needed to explain\nthe magic, and if honest with yourself you will turn it over that night,\nand with a sense of vague discomfort it will all become clear.  You may\nbe tempted, under cover of darkness, to find a translation for `watch\nit' and `stick to it!' more befitting your dignity and aspirations:\n`observation and reasoning,' `patience and purpose,' will seem better;\nbut probably you will not say so to any one else, for fear of being\nlaughed at.\n\nAnd when the new-found knowledge has risen like yeast, and is ready to\nfroth over in advice to others, certain things will be brought home to\nyou with simple directness: that, sufficient unto the yeast is the loaf\nit has to make; that, there is only one person who has got to learn from\nyou--yourself; and that, it is better to be still, for if you keep your\nknowledge to yourself you keep your ignorance from others.\n\nA marked span brands the driver.  The scored bullock may be a rogue or\nmay be a sulky obstinate brute; but the chances are he is either badly\ntrained or overworked, and the whip only makes matters worse; the\nbeginner cannot judge, and the oxen suffer.  Indeed, the beginner may\nwell fail in the task, for there are many and great differences in the\ntemperaments and characters of oxen, just as there are in other animals\nor in human beings.  Once in Mashonaland, when lions broke into a kraal\nand killed and ate two donkeys out of a mixed lot, the mules were found\nnext day twenty miles away; some of the oxen ran for several miles, and\nsome stopped within a few hundred yards; two men who had been roused by\nthe uproar saw in the moonlight one old bullock stroll out through the\ngap in the kraal and stop to scratch his back with his horn; and three\nothers were contentedly dozing within ten yards of the half-eaten\ndonkeys when we went to the kraal in the early morning and found out\nwhat had happened.\n\nThere are no two alike!  You find them nervous and lethargic, timid and\nbold, independent and sociable, exceptional and ordinary, willing and\nsulky, restless and content, staunch and faint-hearted--just like human\nbeings.  I can remember some of them now far better than many of the men\nknown then and since:--Achmoed and Bakir, the big after-oxen who carried\nthe disselboom contentedly through the trek and were spared all other\nwork to save them for emergencies; who, at a word, heaved together--\ntheir great backs bent like bows and their giant strength thrown in to\nhoist the waggon from the deepest hole and up the steepest hill; who\nwere the standby in the worst descents, lying back on their haunches to\nhold the waggon up when brakes could do no more; and inseparables\nalways--even when outspanned the two old comrades walked together.\nThere was little Zole, contented, sociable and short of wind, looking\nlike a fat boy on a hot day, always in distress.  There was Bantom, the\nbig red ox with the white band, lazy and selfish, with an enduring evil\nobstinacy that was simply incredible.  There was Rooiland, the light\nred, with yellow eyeballs and topped horns, a fierce, wild,\nunapproachable, unappeasable creature, restless and impatient, always\nstraining to start, always moaning fretfully when delayed, nervous as a\nyoung thoroughbred, aloof and unfriendly to man and beast, ever ready to\nstab or kick even those who handled him daily, wild as a buck, but\nuntouched by whip and uncalled by name; who would work with a straining,\ntearing impatience that there was no checking, ever ready to outpace the\nrest, and at the outspan standing out alone, hollow-flanked and panting,\neyes and nostrils wide with fierceness and distress, yet always ready to\nstart again--a miracle of intense vitality!  And then there was old\nZwaartland, the coal-black front ox, and the best of all: the sober\nsteadfast leader of the span, who knew his work by heart and answered\nwith quickened pace to any call of his name; swinging wide at every\ncurve to avoid cutting corners; easing up, yet leading free, at every\nsteep descent, so as neither to rush the incline nor entangle the span;\nholding his ground, steady as a rock when the big pull came, heedless of\nhow the team swayed and strained--steadfast even when his mate gave in.\nHe stood out from all the rest; the massive horns--like one huge spiral\npin passed through his head, eight feet from tip to tip--balancing with\neasy swing; the clean limbs and small neat feet moving with the quick\nprecision of a buck's tread; and the large grave eyes so soft and clear\nand deep!\n\nFor those who had eyes to see the book lay open: there, as elsewhere;\nthere, as always.  Jock, with his courage, fidelity and concentration,\nheld the secrets of success!  Jim--dissolute, turbulent and savage--\ncould yield a lesson too; not a warning only, sometimes a crude but\nclear example!  The work itself was full of test and teaching; the hard\nabstemious life had its daily lessons in patience and resource, driven\nhome by every variety of means and incident on that unkindly road.  And\nthe dumb cattle--in their plodding toil, in their sufferings from\ndrought and over-work, and in their strength and weakness--taught and\ntested too.  There is little food for self-content when all that is best\nand worst comes out; but there is much food for thought.\n\nThere was a day at Kruger's Post when everything seemed small beside the\nfigure of one black front ox, who held his ground when all others\nfailed.  The waggon had sunk to the bed-plank in gluey turf, and,\nalthough the whole load had been taken off, three spans linked together\nfailed to move it.  For eight hours that day we tried to dig and pull it\nout, but forty-four oxen on that soft greasy flat toiled in vain.  The\nlong string of bullocks, desperate from failure and bewilderment, swayed\nin the middle from side to side to seek escape from the flying whips;\nthe unyielding waggon held them at one end, and the front oxen, with\ntheir straining fore feet scoring the slippery surface as they were\ndragged backwards, strove to hold them true at the other.  Seven times\nthat day we changed, trying to find a mate who would stand with\nZwaartland; but he wore them all down.  He broke their hearts and stood\nit out alone!  I looked at the ground afterwards: it was grooved in long\nparallel lines where the swaying spans had pulled him backwards, with\nhis four feet clawing the ground in the effort to hold them true; but he\nhad never once turned or wavered.\n\nAnd there was a day at Sand River, when we saw a different picture.  The\nwaggons were empty, yet as we came up out of the stony drift, Bantom the\nsulky hung lazily back, dragging on his yoke and throwing the span out\nof line.  Jim curled the big whip round him, without any good effect,\nand when the span stopped for a breather in the deep narrow road, he lay\ndown and refused to budge.  There was no reason in the world for it\nexcept the animal's obstinate sulky temper.  When the whip--the\ngiraffe-hide thong, doubled into a heavy loop--produced no effect, the\nboys took the yoke off to see if freedom would tempt the animal to rise!\nIt did.  At the first touch of the whip Bantom jumped up and charged\nthem; and then, seeing that there was nothing at all the matter, the\nboys inspanned him and made a fresh start--not touching him again for\nfear of another fit of sulks; but at the first call on the team, down he\nwent again.\n\nMany are the stories of cruelty to oxen, and I had never understood how\nhuman beings could be so fiendishly cruel as to do some of the things\nthat one heard of, such as stabbing, smothering and burning cattle; nor\nunder what circumstances or for what reasons such acts of brutality\ncould be perpetrated; but what I saw that day threw some light on these\nquestions, and, more than anything else, it showed the length to which\nsulkiness and obstinacy will go, and made me wonder whether the\nexplanation was to be sought in endurance of pain through temper or in\nsheer incapacity to feel pain at all.  This is no defence of such\nthings; it is a bare recital of what took place--the only scene I can\nrecall of what would be regarded as wanton cruelty to oxen; and to that\nextent it is an explanation, and nothing more!  Much greater and real\ncruelty I have seen done by work and punishment; but it was due to\nignorance, impatience, or--on rare occasions--uncontrollable temper; it\ndid not look deliberate and wanton.\n\nThere were two considerations here which governed the whole case.  The\nfirst was that as long as the ox lay there it was impossible to move the\nwaggon, and there was no way for the others to pass it; the second, that\nthe ox was free, strong and perfectly well, and all he had to do was to\nget up and walk.\n\nThe drivers from the other waggons came up to lend a hand and clear the\nway so that they might get on; sometimes three were at it together with\ntheir double whips; and, before they could be stopped, sticks and stones\nwere used to hammer the animal on the head and horns, along the spine,\non the hocks and shins, and wherever he was supposed to have feeling;\nthen he was tied by the horns to the trek-chain, so that the span would\ndrag him bodily; but not once did he make the smallest effort to rise.\nThe road was merely a gutter scoured out by the floods and it was not\npossible either to drag the animal up the steep sides or to leave him\nand go on--the waggon would have had to pass over him.  And all this\ntime he was outspanned and free to go; but would not stir.\n\nThen they did the kaffir trick--doubled the tail and bit it: very few\nbullocks will stand that, but Bantom never winced.  Then they took their\nclasp knives and used them as spurs--not stabbing to do real injury, but\npricking enough to draw blood in the fleshy parts, where it would be\nmost felt: he twitched to the pricks--but nothing more.  Then they made\na fire close behind him, and as the wood blazed up, the heat seemed\nunendurable; the smell of singed hair was strong, and the flames, not a\nfoot away, seemed to roast the flesh, and one of the drivers took a\nbrand and pressed the glowing red coal against the inside of the hams;\nbut, beyond a vicious kick at the fire, there was no result.  Then they\ntried to suffocate him, gripping the mouth and nostrils so that he could\nnot breathe; but, when the limit of endurance was reached and even the\nspectators tightened up with a sense of suffocation, a savage shake of\nthe head always freed it--the brute was too strong for them.  Then they\nraised the head with reims, and with the nose held high poured water\ndown the nostrils, at the same time keeping the mouth firmly closed; but\nhe blew the water all over them and shook himself free again.\n\nFor the better part of an hour the struggle went on, but there was not\nthe least sign of yielding on Bantom's part, and the string of waiting\nwaggons grew longer, and many others, white men and black, gathered\nround watching, helping or suggesting.  At last some one brought a\nbucket of water, and into this Bantom's muzzle was thrust as far as it\nwould go, and reims passed through the ears of the bucket were slipped\nround his horns so that he could not shake himself free at will.  We\nstood back and watched the animal's sides for signs of breathing.  For\nan incredible time he held out; but at last with a sudden plunge he was\nup; a bubbling muffled bellow came from the bucket; the boys let go the\nreims; and the terrified animal ridding himself of the bucket after a\nfrantic struggle, stood with legs apart and eyeballs starting from the\nsockets, shaking like a reed.\n\nBut nothing that had happened revealed the vicious ingrained obstinacy\nof the animal's nature so clearly as the last act in the struggle: it\nstood passive, and apparently beaten, while the boys inspanned it again.\nBut at the first call to the team to start, and without a touch to\nprovoke its temper again, it dropped down once more.  Not one of all\nthose looking on would have believed it possible; but there it was!  In\nthe most deliberate manner the challenge was again flung down, and the\nwhole fight begun afresh.\n\nWe felt really desperate: one could think of nothing but to repeat the\nbucket trick; for it was the only one that had succeeded at all.  The\nbucket had been flung aside on the stones as the ox freed itself, and\none of the boys picked it up to fetch more water.  But no more was\nneeded: the rattle of the bucket brought Bantom to his feet with a\nterrified jump, and flinging his whole weight into the yoke, he gave the\nwaggon a heave that started the whole span, and they went out at a run.\nThe drivers had not even picked up their whips: the only incentive\napplied was the bucket, which the boy--grasping the position at once--\nrattled vigorously behind Bantom, doubling his frantic eagerness to get\naway, amid shouts of encouragement and laughter from the watching group.\n\nThe trials and lessons of the work came in various shapes and at every\nturn; and there were many trials where the lesson was not easy to read.\nIt would have taken a good man to handle Bantom, at any time--even in\nthe beginning; but, full-grown, and confirmed in his evil ways, only the\nbutcher could make anything out of him.\n\nAnd only the butcher did!\n\n\nCHAPTER FIFTEEN.\n\nPARADISE CAMP.\n\nThere is a spot on the edge of the Berg which we made our summer\nquarters.  When September came round and the sun swung higher in the\nsteely blue, blazing down more pitilessly than ever; when the little\ncreeks were running dry and the water-holes became saucers of cracked\nmud; when the whole country smelt of fine impalpable dust; it was a\nrelief to quit the Bushveld, and even the hunting was given up almost\nwithout regret.\n\nOn the Berg the air was clear and bracing, as well it might be five to\nseven thousand feet above the sea.  The long green sweeps of undulating\ncountry were broken by deep gorges where the mountain streams had cut\ntheir way through the uptilted outer edge of the big plateau and tumbled\nin countless waterfalls into the Bushveld below; and behind the rolling\ndowns again stood the remnants of the upper formation--the last tough\nfragments of those rocks which the miners believed originally held the\ngold--worn and washed away, inch by inch and ounce by ounce ever since\nthe Deluge.  These broken parapets stood up like ruins of giant castles\nwith every layer in their formation visible across their rugged\ntime-worn fronts--lines, in places a few yards only and in others a mile\nor more in length, laid one upon another as true as any spirit level\ncould set them--and a wealth of colouring over all that, day by day, one\nthought more wonderful in variety and blend.  Grey and black and yellow,\nwhite and red and brown, were there; yet all harmonising, all shaded by\ngrowths of shrub and creeper, by festoons of moss or brilliant lichen,\nall weather-stained and softened, all toned, as time and nature do it,\nto make straight lines and many colours blend into the picturesque.\n\nParadise Camp perched on the very edge of the Berg.  Behind us rolled\ngreen slopes to the feet of the higher peaks, and in front of us lay the\nBushveld.  From the broken battlements of the Berg we looked down three\nthousand feet, and eastward to the sea a hundred and fifty miles away,\nacross the vast panorama.  Black densely-timbered kloofs broke the edge\nof the plateau into a long series of projecting turrets, in some places\ncutting far in, deep crevices into which the bigger waterfalls plunged\nand were lost.  But the top of the Berg itself was bare of trees: the\nbreeze blew cool and fresh for ever there; the waters trickled and\nsplashed in every little break or tumbled with steady roar down the\ngreater gorges; deep pools, fringed with masses of ferns, smooth as\nmirrors or flecked with dancing sunlight, were set like brilliants in\nthe silver chain of each little stream; and rocks and pebbles, wonderful\nin their colours, were magnified and glorified into polished gems by the\nsparkling water.\n\nBut Nature has her moods, and it was not always thus at Paradise Camp.\nWhen the cold mist-rains, like wet grey fogs, swept over us and for a\nweek blotted out creation, it was neither pleasant nor safe to grope\nalong the edge of the Berg, in search of strayed cattle--wet and cold,\nunable to see, and checked from time to time by a keener straighter gust\nthat leapt up over the unseen precipice a few yards off.\n\nAnd there was still another mood when the summer rains set in and the\nstorms burst over us, and the lightning stabbed viciously in all\ndirections, and the crackling crash of the thunder seemed as if the very\nBerg itself must be split and shattered.  Then the rivers rose; the roar\nof waters was all around us; and Paradise Camp was isolated from the\nrest by floods which no man would lightly face.\n\nParadise Camp stood on the edge of the kloof where the nearest timber\ngrew; Tumbling Waters, where stood the thousand grey sandstone sentinels\nof strange fantastic shapes, was a couple of miles away facing Black\nBluff, the highest point of all, and The Camel, The Wolf, The Sitting\nHen and scores more, rough casts in rock by Nature's hand, stood there.\nClose below us was the Bathing Pool, with its twenty feet of purest\nwater, its three rock-ledge `springboards,' and its banks of moss and\ncanopies of tree-ferns.  Further down the stream spread in a thousand\npools and rapids over a mile of black bedrock and then poured in one\nbroad sheet over Graskop Falls.  And still further down were the Mac Mac\nFalls, three hundred feet straight drop into the rock-strewn gorge,\nwhere the straight walls were draped with staghorn moss, like countless\nfolds of delicate green lace, bespangled by the spray.  We were felling\nand slipping timber for the goldfields then, and it was in these\nsurroundings that the work was done.\n\nIt was a Sunday morning, and I was lying on my back on a sack-stretcher\ntaking it easy, when Jock gave a growl and trotted out.  Presently I\nheard voices in the next hut and wondered who the visitors were--too\nlazily content to get up and see; then a cold nose was poked against my\ncheek and I looked round to see Jess's little eyes and flickering ears\nwithin a few inches of my face.  For the moment she did not look cross,\nbut as if a faint smile of welcome were flitting across a soured face;\nthen she trotted back to the other hut where Ted was patting Jock and\ntrying to trace a likeness to The Rat.\n\nIt was a long time since mother and son had been together, and if the\ndifference between them was remarkable, the likeness seemed to me more\nstriking still.  Jock had grown up by himself and made himself; he was\nso different from other dogs that I had forgotten how much he owed to\ngood old Jess; but now that they were once more side by side everything\nhe did and had done recalled the likeness and yet showed the difference\nbetween them.  Many times as we moved about the camp or worked in the\nwoods they walked or stood together, sometimes sniffing along some spoor\nand sometimes waiting and watching for us to come up--handsome son and\nugly mother.  Ugly she might be, with her little fretful hostile eyes\nand her uncertain ever-moving ears, and silent sour and cross; but\nstubborn fidelity and reckless courage were hers too; and all the good\nJock had in him came from Jess.\n\nTo see them side by side was enough: every line in his golden brindled\ncoat had its counterpart in her dull markings; his jaw was hers, with a\ndifference, every whit as determined but without the savage look; his\neyes were hers--brown to black as the moods changed--yet not fretful and\ncross, but serenely observant, when quiet, and black, hot and angry,\nlike hers, when roused--yet without the look of relentless cruelty; his\nears were hers--and yet how different, not shifting, flickering and ever\non the move, nor flattened back with the look of most uncertain temper,\nbut sure in their movements and faithful reflectors of more sober moods\nand more balanced temper, and so often cocked--one full and one half--\nwith a look of genuinely friendly interest which, when he put his head\non one side, seemed to change in a curiously comical way into an\nexpression of quiet amusement.\n\nThe work kept us close to camp and we gave no thought to shooting; yet\nJess and Jock had some good sport together.  We gave them courses for\nbreathers after Oribi in the open, but these fleetest of little\nantelopes left them out of sight in very few minutes.  Bushbuck too were\nplentiful enough, but so wily in keeping to the dark woods and deep\nkloofs that unless we organised a drive the only chance one got was to\nstalk them in the early morning as they fed on the fringes of the bush.\nI often wondered how the dogs would have fared with those desperate\nfighters that have injured and killed more dogs and more men than any\nother buck, save perhaps the Sable.\n\nOnce they caught an ant-bear in the open, and there was a\nrough-and-tumble; we had no weapons--not even sticks--with us, and the\ndogs had it all to themselves.  The clumsy creature could do nothing\nwith them; his powerful digging claws looked dangerous, but the dogs\nnever gave him a chance; he tried hard to reach his hole, but they\ncaught him as he somersaulted to dodge them, and, one in front and one\nbehind, worried the life out of him.\n\nOnce they killed a tiger-cat.  We heard the rush and the row, and\nscrambled down through the tangled woods as fast as we could, but they\nfought on, tumbling and rolling downhill before us, and when we came up\nto them it was all over and they were tugging and tearing at the\nlifeless black and white body, Jess at the throat and Jock at the\nstomach.  The cat was as big as either of them and armed with most\nformidable claws, which it had used to some purpose, for both dogs were\ntorn and bleeding freely in several places.  Still they thoroughly\nenjoyed it and searched the place afresh every time we passed it, as\nregularly as a boy looks about where he once picked up a sixpence.\n\nThen the dainty little klipspringers led them many a crazy dance along\nthe crags and ledges of the mountain face, jumping from rock to rock\nwith the utmost ease and certainty and looking down with calm curiosity\nat the clumsy scrambling dogs as they vainly tried to follow.  The\ndassies too--watchful, silent and rubber-footed--played hide-and-seek\nwith them in the cracks and crevices; but the dogs had no chance there.\n\nOften there were races after baboons.  There were thousands of them\nalong the Berg, but except when a few were found in the open, we always\ncalled the dogs in.  Among a troop of baboons the best of dogs would\nhave no show at all.  Ugly, savage and treacherous as they are, they\nhave at least one quality which compels admiration--they stand by each\nother.  If one is attacked or wounded the others will often turn back\nand help, and they will literally tear a dog to pieces.  Even against\none full-grown male a dog has little or no chance; for they are very\npowerful, quick as lightning, and fierce fighters.  Their enormous jaws\nand teeth outmatch a dog's, and with four `hands' to help them the\nadvantage is altogether too great.  Their method of fighting is to hold\nthe dog with all four feet and tear pieces out of him with their teeth.\n\nWe knew the danger well, for there was a fighting baboon at a wayside\nplace not far from us--a savage brute, owned by a still greater savage.\nIt was kept chained up to a pole with its house on the top of the pole;\nand what the owner considered to be a good joke was to entice dogs up,\neither to attack the baboon or at least to come sniffing about within\nreach of it, and then see them worried to death.  The excuse was always\nthe same: \"Your dog attacked the baboon.  I can't help it.\"  Sometimes\nthe dogs were rescued by their owners; but many were killed.  To its\nnative cunning this brute added all the tricks that experience had\ntaught, sometimes hiding up in its box to induce the dog to come\nsniffing close up; sometimes grubbing in the sand for food, pretending\nnot to see the intruder until he was well within reach; sometimes\nrunning back in feigned alarm to draw him on.  Once it got a grip the\nbaboon threw itself on its side or back and, with all four feet holding\nthe dog off, tore lumps out of the helpless animal.  A plucky dog that\nwould try to make a fight of it had no chance; the only hope was to get\naway, if possible.\n\nNot every baboon is a fighter like this, but in almost every troop there\nwill be at least one terrible old fellow, and the biggest, strongest and\nfiercest always dominate and lead the others; and their hostility and\naudacity are such that they will loiter behind the retreating troop and\nface a man on foot or on horseback, slowly and reluctantly giving way,\nor sometimes moving along abreast, a hostile escort, giving loud roars\nof defiance and hoarse challenges as though ready on the least\nprovocation or excuse to charge.  It is not a pleasant position for an\nunarmed man, as at the first move or call from the leader the whole\ntroop would come charging down again.  It is not actual danger that\nimpresses one, but the uncanny effect of the short defiant roars, the\nsavage half-human look of the repulsive creatures, their still more\nhuman methods of facial expression and threatening attitudes, their\ntactics in encircling their object and using cover to approach and peer\nout cautiously from behind it, and their evident co-operation and\nobedience to the leader's directions and example.\n\nOne day while at work in the woods there came to us a grizzled\nworn-looking old kaffir, whose head ring of polished black wax attested\nhis dignity as a kehla.  He carried an old musket and was attended by\ntwo youngsters armed with throwing-sticks and a hunting assegai each.\nHe appeared to be a `somebody' in a small way, and we knew at a glance\nthat he had not come for nothing.\n\nThere is a certain courtesy and a good deal of formality observed among\nthe natives which is appreciated by but few of the white men who come in\ncontact with them.  One reason for this failure in appreciation is that\nnative courtesy is in its method and expression sometimes just the\nreverse of what we consider proper; and if actions which seem suggestive\nof disrespect were judged from the native's standpoint, and according to\nhis code, there would be no misunderstanding.  The old man, passing and\nignoring the group of boys, came towards us as we sat in the shade for\nthe midday rest, and slowly came to a stand a few yards off, leaning on\nhis long flint-lock quietly taking stock of us each in turn, and waiting\nfor us to inspect him.  Then, after three or four minutes of this, he\nproceeded to salute us separately with \"Sakubona, Umlungu!\" delivered\nwith measured deliberation at intervals of about a quarter of a minute,\neach salutation being accompanied by the customary upward movement of\nthe head--their respectful equivalent of our nod or bow.  When he had\ndone the round, his two attendants took their turns, and when this was\nover, and another long pause had served to mark his respect, he drew\nback a few paces to a spot about half-way between us and where the\nkaffirs sat, and, tucking his loin skins comfortably under him, squatted\ndown.  Ten minutes more elapsed before he allowed his eyes to wander\nabsently round towards the boys and finally to settle on them for a\nrepetition of the performance that we had been favoured with.  But in\nthis case it was they who led off with the \"Sakubona, Umganaam!\" which\nhe acknowledged with the raising of the head and a soft murmur of\ncontented recognition, \"A-he.\"\n\nOnce more there was silence for a spell, while he waited to be\nquestioned in the customary manner and to give an account of himself,\nbefore it would be courteous or proper to introduce the subject of his\nvisit.  It was Jim's voice that broke the silence--clear and imperative,\nas usual, but not uncivil.  It always was Jim who cut in, as those do\nwho are naturally impatient of delays and formalities.\n\n\"Velapi, Umganaam?\"  (Where do you come from, friend?) he asked, putting\nthe question which is recognised as courteously providing the stranger\nwith an opening to give an account of himself; and he is expected and\nrequired to do so to their satisfaction before he in turn can ask all\nabout them, their occupations, homes, destination and master, and his\noccupation, purpose and possessions.\n\nThe talk went round in low exchanges until at last the old man moved\ncloser and joined the circle; and then the other voices dropped out,\nonly to be heard once in a while in some brief question or that briefest\nof all comments--the kaffir click and \"Ow!\"  It may mean anything,\naccording to the tone, but it was clearly sympathetic on that occasion.\nThe old man's voice went on monotonously in a low-pitched impassive\ntone; but the boys hung intent on every word to the end.  Then one or\ntwo questions, briefly answered in the same tone of detached philosophic\nindifference, brought their talk to a close.  The old fellow tapped his\ncarved wood snuff-box with the carefully-preserved long yellowish nail\nof one forefinger, and pouring some snuff into the palm of his hand,\ndrew it into each nostril in turn with long luxurious sniffs; and then,\nresting his arms on his knees, he relapsed into complete silence.\n\nWe called the boys to start work again, and they came away, as is their\ncustom, without a word or look towards the man whose story had held them\nfor the last half-hour.  Nor did he speak or stir, but sat on unmoved, a\npicture of stoical indifference.  But who can say if it be indifference\nor fatalism or the most astute diplomacy?  Among white men opinions\ndiffer: I put it down as fatalism.\n\nWe asked no questions, for we knew it was no accident that had brought\nthe old man our way: he wanted something, and we would learn soon enough\nwhat it was.  So we waited.\n\nAs we gathered round the fallen tree to finish the cleaning and slip it\ndown to the track Jim remarked irrelevantly that tigers were `schelms,'\nand it was his conviction that there were a great many in the kloofs\nround about.  At intervals during the next hour or so he dropped other\nscraps about tigers and their ways, and how to get at them and what good\nsport it was, winding up with a short account of how two seasons back an\nEnglish `Capitaine' had been killed by one only a few miles away.\n\nJim was no diplomatist: he had tiger on the brain, and showed it; so\nwhen I asked him bluntly what the old man had been talking about, the\nwhole story came out.  There was a tiger--it was of course the biggest\never seen--which had been preying on the old chief's kraal for the last\nsix months: dogs, goats and kaffir sheep innumerable had disappeared,\neven fowls were not despised; and only two days ago the climax had been\nreached when, in the cool of the afternoon and in defiance of the\nyelling herd boy, it had slipped into the herd at the drinking-place and\ncarried off a calf--a heifer-calf too!  The old man was poor: the tiger\nhad nearly ruined him; and he had come up to see if we, \"who were great\nhunters,\" would come down and kill the thief, or at least lend him a\ntiger-trap, as he could not afford to buy one.\n\nIn the evening when we returned to camp we found the old fellow there,\nand heard the story told with the same patient resignation or stoical\nindifference with which he had told it to the boys; and, if there was\nsomething inscrutable in the smoky eyes that might have hidden a more\ncalculating spirit, it did not trouble us--the tiger was what we wanted;\nthe chance seemed good enough; and we decided to go.  Tigers--as they\nare almost invariably called, but properly, leopards--were plentiful\nenough and were often to be heard at night in the kloofs below; but they\nare extremely wary animals and in the inhabited parts rarely move about\nby day; however, the marauding habits and the audacity of this fellow\nwere full of promise.\n\nThe following afternoon we set off with our guns and blankets, a little\nfood for two days, and the tiger-trap; and by nightfall we had reached\nthe foot of the Berg by paths and ways which you might think only a\nbaboon could follow.\n\nIt was moonlight, and we moved along through the heavily-timbered kloofs\nin single file behind the shadowy figure of the shrivelled old chief.\nHis years seemed no handicap to him, as with long easy soft-footed\nstrides he went on hour after hour.  The air was delightfully cool and\nsweet with the fresh smells of the woods; the damp carpet of moss and\ndead leaves dulled the sound of our more blundering steps; now and again\nthrough the thick canopy of evergreens we caught glimpses of the moon,\nand in odd places the light threw stumps or rocks into quaint relief or\nturned some tall bare trunk into a ghostly sentinel of the forest.\n\nWe had crossed the last of the many mountain streams and reached open\nground when the old chief stopped, and pointing to the face of a high\nkrans--black and threatening in the shadow, as it seemed to overhang\nus--said that somewhere up there was a cave which was the tiger's home,\nand it was from this safe refuge that he raided the countryside.\n\nThe kraal was not far off.  From the top of the spur we could look\nround, as from the pit of some vast coliseum, and see the huge wall of\nthe Berg towering up above and half enclosing us, the whole arena roofed\nover by the star-spattered sky.  The brilliant moonlight picked out\nevery ridge and hill, deepening the velvet black of the shadowed\nvalleys, and on the rise before us there was the twinkling light of a\nsmall fire, and the sound of voices came to us, borne on the still night\nair, so clearly that words picked out here and there were repeated by\nour boys with grunting comments and chuckles of amusement.\n\nWe started on again down an easy slope passing through some bush, and at\nthe bottom came on level ground thinly covered with big shady trees and\nscattered undergrowth.  As we walked briskly through the flecked and\ndappled light and shade, we were startled by the sudden and furious rush\nof Jess and Jock off the path and away into the scrub on the left; and\nimmediately after there was a grunting noise, a crashing and scrambling,\nand then one sharp clear yelp of pain from one of the dogs.  The old\nchief ran back behind us, shouting \"Ingwa, ingwa!\"  (Tiger, tiger).  We\nslipped our rifles round and stood facing front, unable to see anything\nand not knowing what to expect.  There were sounds of some sort in the\nbush--something like a faint scratching, and something like smothered\nsobbing grunts, but so indistinct as to be more ominous and disquieting\nthan absolute silence.\n\n\"He has killed the dogs,\" the old chief said, in a low voice.\n\nBut as he said it there was a rustle in front, and something came out\ntowards us.  The guns were up and levelled, instantly, but dropped again\nwhen we saw it was a dog; and Jess came back limping badly and stopping\nevery few paces to shake her head and rub her mouth against her\nfore-paws.  She was in great pain and breathed out faint barely-audible\nwhines from time to time.\n\nWe waited for minutes, but Jock did not appear; and as the curious\nsounds still came from the bush we moved forward in open order, very\nslowly and with infinite caution.  As we got closer, scouting each bush\nand open space, the sounds grew clearer, and suddenly it came to me that\nit was the noise of a body being dragged and the grunting breathing of a\ndog.  I called sharply to Jock and the sound stopped; and taking a few\npaces forward then, I saw him in a moonlit space turning round and round\non the pivot of his hind legs and swinging or dragging something much\nbigger than himself.\n\nJim gave a yell and shot past me, plunging his assegai into the object\nand shouting \"Porcupine, porcupine,\" at the top of his voice.  We were\nall round it in a couple of seconds, but I think the porcupine was as\ngood as dead even before Jim had stabbed it.  Jock was still holding on\ngrimly, tugging with all his might and always with the same movement of\nswinging it round him, or, of himself circling round it--perhaps that is\nthe fairer description, for the porcupine was much the heavier.  He had\nit by the throat where the flesh is bare of quills, and had kept himself\nout of reach of the terrible spikes by pulling away all the time, just\nas he had done with the duiker and other buck to avoid their hind feet.\n\nThis encounter with the porcupine gave us a better chance of getting the\ntiger than we ever expected--too good a chance to be neglected; so we\ncut the animal up and used the worthless parts to bait the big\ntiger-trap, having first dragged them across the veld for a good\ndistance each way to leave a blood spoor which would lead the tiger up\nto the trap.  This, with the quantity of blood spread about in the\nfight, lying right in the track of his usual prowling ought to attract\nhis attention, we thought; and we fastened the trap to a big tree,\nmaking an avenue of bushes up to the bait so that he would have to walk\nright over the trap hidden under the dead leaves, in order to get at the\nbait.  We hoped that, if it failed to hold, it would at least wound him\nbadly enough to enable us to follow him up in the morning.\n\nIn the bright light of the fire that night, as Jock lay beside me having\nhis share of the porcupine steaks, I noticed something curious about his\nchest, and on looking closer found the whole of his white `shirt front'\nspeckled with dots of blood; he had been pricked in dozens of places,\nand it was clear that it had been no walk-over for him; he must have had\na pretty rough handling before he got the porcupine on the swing.  He\nwas none the worse, however, and was the picture of contentment as he\nlay beside me in the ring facing the fire.\n\nBut Jess was a puzzle.  From the time that she had come hobbling back to\nus, carrying her one foot in the air and stopping to rub her mouth on\nher paws, we had been trying to find out what was the matter.  The foot\ntrouble was clear enough, for there was a quill fifteen inches long and\nas stiff and thick as a lead pencil still piercing the ball of her foot,\nwith the needle-like point sticking out between her toes.  Fortunately\nit had not been driven far through and the hole was small, so that once\nit was drawn and the foot bandaged she got along fairly well.  It was\nnot the foot that was troubling her; all through the evening she kept\nrepeating the movement of her head, either rubbing it on her front legs\nor wiping her muzzle with the paws, much as a cat does when washing its\nface.  She would not touch food and could not lie still for five\nminutes; and we could do nothing to help her.\n\n\nCHAPTER SIXTEEN.\n\nTHE TIGER AND BABOONS.\n\nNo one had doubted Jess's courage, even when we saw her come back alone:\nwe knew there was something wrong, but in spite of every care and effort\nwe could not find out what it was, and poor old Jess went through the\nnight in suffering, making no sound, but moving from place to place\nweary and restless, giving long tired quivering sighs, and pawing at her\nmouth from time to time.  In the morning light we again looked her all\nover carefully, and especially opened her mouth and examined that and\nher nostrils, but could find nothing to show what was wrong.\n\nThe puzzle was solved by accident: Ted was sitting on the ground when\nshe came up to him, looking wistfully into his face again with one of\nthe mute appeals for help.\n\n\"What is it, Jess, old girl?\" he said, and reaching out, he caught her\nhead in both hands and drew her towards him; but with a sharp\nexclamation he instantly let go again, pricked by something, and a drop\nof blood oozed from one finger-tip.  Under Jess's right ear there was a\nhard sharp point just showing through the skin: we all felt it, and when\nthe skin was forced back we saw it was the tip of a porcupine quill.\nThere was no pulling it out or moving it, however, nor could we for a\nlong time find where it had entered.  At last Ted noticed what looked\nlike a tiny narrow strip of bark adhering to the outside of her lower\nlip, and this turned out to be the broken end of the quill, snapped off\nclose to the flesh; not even the end of the quill was visible--only the\nlittle strip that had peeled off in the breaking.\n\nPoor old Jess!  We had no very grand appliances for surgery, and had to\nslit her lip down with an ordinary skinning knife.  Ted held her between\nhis knees and gripped her head with both hands, while one of us pulled\nwith steel pliers on the broken quill until it came out.  The quill had\npierced her lower lip, entered the gums beside the front teeth, run all\nalong the jaw and through the flesh behind, coming out just below the\near.  It was over seven inches long.  She struggled a little under the\nrough treatment, and there was a protesting whimper when we tugged; but\nshe did not let out one cry under all the pain.\n\nWe knew then that Jess had done her share in the fight, and guessed that\nit was she who in her reckless charge had rolled the porcupine over and\ngiven Jock his chance.\n\nThe doctoring of Jess had delayed us considerably, and while we were\nstill busy at it the old chief came up to say that his scouts had\nreturned and reported that there was no tiger to be seen, but that they\nthought the trap had been sprung.  They had not liked to go close up,\npreferring to observe the spot from a tree some way off.\n\nThe first question was what to do with Jess.  We had no collar or chain,\nof course, and nothing would induce her to stay behind once Ted started;\nshe would have bitten through ropes and reims in a few minutes, and no\nkaffir would have faced the job of watching over and checking her.\nFinally we put her into one of the reed and mud huts, closing the\nentrance with some raw hides weighted with heavy stones; and off we\nwent.\n\nWe found the trap sprung and the bait untouched.  The spoor was a\ntiger's, right enough, and we saw where it had circled suspiciously all\nround before finally entering the little fenced approach which we had\nbuilt to shepherd it on to the trap.  There each footprint was clear,\nand it appeared that instead of cautiously creeping right up to the bait\nand stepping on the setting-plate, it had made a pounce at the bait from\nabout ten feet away, releasing the trap by knocking the spring or by\ntouching the plate with the barrel of its body.  The tiger had evidently\nbeen nipped, but the body was too big for the teeth to close on, and no\ndoubt the spring it gave on feeling the grip underneath set it free with\nnothing worse than a bad scraping and a tremendous fright.  There was\nplenty of hair and some skin on the teeth of the trap, but very little\nblood there, and none at all to be found round about.\n\nThat was almost the worst result we could have had: the tiger was not\ncrippled, nor was it wounded enough to enable us to track it, but must\nhave been so thoroughly alarmed that it would certainly be extremely\nnervous and suspicious of everything now, and would probably avoid the\nneighbourhood for some time to come.\n\nThe trap was clearly of no further use, but after coming so far for the\ntiger we were not disposed to give up the hunt without another effort.\nThe natives told us it was quite useless to follow it up as it was a\nreal `schelm,' and by that time would be miles away in some inaccessible\nkrans.  We determined however to go on, and if we failed to get a trace\nof the tiger, to put in the day hunting bushbuck or wild pig, both of\nwhich were fairly plentiful.\n\nWe had not gone more than a few hundred yards when an exclamation from\none of the boys made us look round, and we saw Jess on the opposite\nslope coming along full speed after us with her nose to the trail.  She\nhad scratched and bitten her way through the reed and mud wall of the\nhut, scared the wits out of a couple of boys who had tried to head her\noff, and raced away after us with a pack of kaffir mongrels yelping\nunnoticed at her heels.  She really did not seem much the worse for her\nwounds, and was--for her--quite demonstrative in her delight at finding\nus again.\n\nIn any case there was nothing to be done but to let her come, and we\nwent on once more beating up towards the lair in the black krans with\nthe two dogs in the lead.\n\nThe guides led us down into the bed of one of the mountain streams, and\nfollowing this up we were soon in the woods where the big trees meeting\noverhead made it dark and cool.  It was difficult in that light to see\nanything clearly at first, and the considerable undergrowth of shrub and\ncreepers and the boulders shed from the Berg added to the difficulty and\nmade progress slow.  We moved along as much as possible abreast, five or\nsix yards apart, but were often driven by obstacles into the bed of the\nstream for short distances in order to make headway at all, and although\nthere did not seem to be much chance of finding the tiger at home, we\ncrept along cautiously and noiselessly, talking--when we had to--only in\nwhispers.\n\nWe were bunched together, preparing to crawl along a rock overhanging a\nlittle pool, when the boy in front made a sign and pointed with his\nassegai to the dogs.  They had crossed the stream and were walking--very\nslowly and abreast--near the water's edge.  The rawest of beginners\nwould have needed no explanation.  The two stood for a few seconds\nsniffing at a particular spot and then both together looked steadily\nupstream: there was another pause and they moved very slowly and\ncarefully forward a yard or so and sniffed again with their noses almost\ntouching.  As they did this the hair on their backs and shoulders began\nto rise until, as they reached the head of the pool, they were bristling\nlike hedgehogs and giving little purring growls.\n\nThe guide went over to them while we waited, afraid to move lest the\nnoise of our boots on the stones should betray us.  After looking round\nfor a bit he pointed to a spot on the bank where he had found the fresh\nspoor of the tiger, and picking up something there to show to us he came\nback to our side.  It was a little fragment of whitish skin with white\nhairs on it.  There was no doubt about it then: we were on the fresh\nspoor of the tiger where it had stopped to drink at the pool and\nprobably to lick the scratches made by the trap; and leaving the bed of\nthe stream it had gone through the thick undergrowth up towards the\nkrans.\n\nWe were not more than a hundred yards from the krans then, and the track\ntaken by the tiger was not at all an inviting one.  It was at first\nmerely a narrow tunnel in the undergrowth up the steep hillside, through\nwhich we crept in single file with the two dogs a few yards in front;\nthey moved on in the same silent deliberate way, so intent and strung up\nthat they started slightly and instantly looked up in front at the least\nsound.  As the ascent became steeper and more rocky, the undergrowth\nthinned and we were able to spread out into line once more, threading\nour way through several roughly-parallel game tracks or natural openings\nand stooping low to watch the dogs and take our cue from them.\n\nWe were about fifteen yards from the precipitous face of the krans, and\nhad just worked round a huge boulder into a space fairly free of bush\nbut cumbered with many big rocks and loose stones, when the dogs stopped\nand stood quivering and bristling all over, moving their heads slowly\nabout with noses well raised and sniffing persistently.  There was\nsomething now that interested them more than the spoor: they winded the\ntiger itself, but could not tell where.  No one stirred: we stood\nwatching the dogs and snatching glances right and left among the\nboulders and their a shady creeper-hidden caves and recesses, and as we\nstood thus, grouped together in breathless silence, an electrifying\nsnarling roar came from the krans above and the spotted body of the\ntiger shot like a streak out of the black mouth of a cave and across our\nfront into the bush; there was a series of crashing bounds, as though a\nstone rolled from the mountain were leaping through the jungle; and then\nabsolute silence.\n\nWe explored the den; but there was nothing of interest in it--no remains\nof food, no old bones, or other signs of cubs.  It seemed to be the\nretreat of a male tiger--secluded, quiet, and cool.  The opening was not\nvisible from any distance, a split-off slab of rock partly hiding it;\nbut when we stood upon the rock platform we found that almost the whole\nof the horse-shoe bay in the Berg into which we had descended was\nvisible, and it was with a \"Wow!\" of surprise and mortification that the\nkraal boys found they could see the kraal itself and their goats and\ncattle grazing on the slopes and in the valley below.\n\nTigers do not take their kill to their dens unless there are young cubs\nto be fed; as a rule they feed where they kill, or as near to it as\nsafety permits, and when they have fed their fill they carry off the\nremainder of the carcase and hide it.  Lions, hyenas, and others leave\nwhat they cannot eat and return to it for their next feed; but tigers\nare more provident and more cunning, and--being able to climb trees--\nthey are very much more difficult to follow or waylay by means of their\nkill.  They are not big fellows, rarely exceeding seven feet from nose\nto tip of tail and 130 pounds in weight; but they are extraordinarily\nactive and strong, and it is difficult to believe until one has seen the\nproof of it that they are able to climb the bare trunk of a tree\ncarrying a kill much bigger and heavier than themselves, and hang it\nsafely wedged in some hidden fork out of reach of any other animal.  I\nhave repeatedly seen the remains of their victims in the forks of trees;\nonce it was part of a pig, but on the other occasions the remains were\nof horned animals; the pig was balanced in the fork; the others were\nhooked in by the heads and horns.\n\nA well-known hunter once told me an experience of his illustrating the\nstrength and habits of tigers.  He had shot a young giraffe and carried\noff as much as he could put on his horse, and hid the rest; but when he\nreturned next morning it had disappeared, and the spoor of a full-grown\ntiger told him why.  He followed the drag mark up to the foot of a big\ntree and found the remains of the carcase, fully 300 pounds in weight,\nin a fork more than twenty feet from the ground.\n\nHe left it there as a bait and returned again the following morning on\nthe chance of a shot; but the meat had once more been removed and on\nfollowing up the spoor he found what was left hidden in another tree\nsome two hundred yards away.\n\nIt would have been waste of time to follow our tiger--he would be on the\nwatch and on the move for hours; so we gave it up at once, and struck\nacross the spurs for another part of the big arena where pig and\nbushbuck were known to feed in the mornings.  It was slow and difficult\nwork, as the bush was very dense and the ground rough.  The place was\nriddled with game tracks, and we saw spoor of koodoo and eland several\ntimes, and tracks innumerable of wild pig, rietbuck, bushbuck, and\nduiker.  But there was more than spoor: a dozen times we heard the crash\nof startled animals through the reeds or bush only a few yards away\nwithout being able to see a thing.\n\nWe had nearly reached the kloof we were aiming for when we had the good\nluck to get a bushbuck in a very unexpected way.  We had worked our way\nout of a particularly dense patch of bush and brambles into a corner of\nthe woods and were resting on the mossy ground in the shade of the big\ntrees when the sound of clattering stones a good way off made us start\nup again and grab our rifles; and presently we saw, outlined against the\nband of light which marked the edge of the timber, a buck charging down\ntowards us.  Three of us fired together, and the buck rolled over within\na few yards of where we stood.\n\nWe were then in a `dead end' up against the precipitous face of the Berg\nwhere there was no road or path other than game tracks, and where no\nhuman being ever went except for the purpose of hunting.  We knew there\nwas no one else shooting there, and it puzzled us considerably to think\nwhat had scared the bushbuck; for the animal had certainly been startled\nand perhaps chased; the pace, the noise it made, and the blind\nrecklessness of its dash, all showed that.  The only explanation we\ncould think of was that the tiger, in making a circuit along the slopes\nof the Berg to get away from us, must have put the buck up and driven it\ndown on to us in the woods below, and if that were so, the reports of\nour rifles must have made him think that he was never going to get rid\nof us.\n\nWe skinned and cut up the buck and pushed on again; but the roughness of\nthe trail and the various stoppages had delayed us greatly, and we\nfailed to get the expected bag.  We got one rietbuck and a young boar;\nthe rietbuck was a dead shot; but the pig, from the shooting standpoint,\nwas a most humiliating failure.  A troop of twenty or thirty started up\nfrom under our feet as we came out of the blazing sunlight into the\ngloom of the woods, and no one could see well enough to aim.  They were\nled by a grand boar, and the whole lot looked like a troop of charging\nlions as they raced by with their bristly manes erect and their tufted\ntails standing straight up.\n\nAs we stood there, crestfallen and disgusted, we heard fresh grunting\nbehind, and turning round we saw one pig racing past in the open, having\napparently missed the troop while wallowing in a mudhole and known\nnothing of our intrusion until he heard the shooting.  We gave him a\nregular broadside, and--as is usually the case when you think that\nquantity will do in place of quality--made an awful mess of it, and\nbefore we had time to reload Jess and Jock had cut in, and we could not\nfire again for fear of hitting them.  The boys, wildly delighted by this\nirregular development which gave them such a chance, joined in the chase\nand in a few seconds it became a chaotic romp like a rat hunt in a\nschoolroom.  The dogs ranged up on each side and were on to the pig\ntogether, Jess hanging on to one ear and Jock at the neck; the boar dug\nright and left at them, but his tusks were short and blunt, and if he\nmanaged to get at them at all they bore no mark of it afterwards.  For\nabout twenty yards they dragged and tugged, and then all three came\nsomersaulting over together.  In the scramble Jock got his grip on the\nthroat, and Jess--rolled and trampled on--appeared between the pig's\nhind legs, sliding on her back with her teeth embedded in one of the\nhams.  For half a minute the boar, grunting and snorting, plunged about\nmadly, trying to get at them or to free himself; and then the boys\ncaught up and riddled him with their assegais.\n\nAfter the two bombardments of the pigs and the fearful row made by the\nboys there was not much chance of putting up anything more, and we made\nfor the nearest stream in the woods for a feed and a rest before\nreturning to camp.\n\nWe had failed to get the tiger, it is true, and it would be useless\ngiving more time or further thought to him, for in all probability it\nwould be a week or more before he returned to his old hunting-ground and\nhis old marauding tricks, but the porcupine and the pig had provided\nmore interest and amusement than much bigger game might have done, and\non the whole, although disappointed, we were not dissatisfied: in fact,\nit would have needed an ungrateful spirit indeed to feel discontented in\nsuch surroundings.\n\nBig trees of many kinds and shapes united to make a canopy of leaves\noverhead through which only occasional shafts of sunlight struck.  The\ncold mountain stream tumbling over ledges, swirling among rocks or\nrippling over pebble-strewn reaches, gurgled, splashed and bubbled with\nthat wonderful medley of sounds that go to make the lullaby of the\nbrook.  The floor of the forest was carpeted with a pile of staghorn\nmoss a foot thick, and maidenhair fern grew everywhere with the\nluxuriant profusion of weeds in a tropical garden.  Traveller's Joy\ncovered whole trees with dense creamy bloom and spread its fragrance\neverywhere; wild clematis trailed over stumps and fallen branches;\nquantities of maidenhair overflowed the banks and drooped to the water\nall along the course of the stream; whilst, marshalled on either side,\nhuddled together on little islands, perched on rocks, and grouped on\noverhanging ledges, stood the tree-ferns--as though they had come to\ndrink--their wide-reaching delicate fronds like giant green\nostrich-feathers waving gently to each breath of air or quivering as the\nmovement of the water shook the trunks.\n\nLong-tailed greeny-grey monkeys with black faces peered down at us,\nmoving lightly on their branch trapezes, and pulled faces or chattered\ntheir indignant protest against intrusion; in the tops of the wild fig\ntrees bright green pigeons watched us shyly--great big birds of a\nwonderful green; gorgeous louries too flashed their colours and raised\ntheir crests--pictures of extreme and comical surprise; golden cuckoos\nthere were also and beautiful little green-backed ruby-throated\nhoney-suckers, flitted like butterflies among the flowers on the sunlit\nfringe of the woods.\n\nNow and again guinea-fowl and bush-pheasant craned their necks over some\nfallen log or stone to peer curiously at us, then stooping low again\ndarted along their well-worn runs into the thick bush.  The place was in\nfact a natural preserve; a `bay' let into the wall of the Berg,\nhalf-encircled by cliffs which nothing could climb, a little world where\nthe common enemy--man--seldom indeed intruded.\n\nWe stayed there until the afternoon sun had passed behind the crest of\nthe Berg above us; and, instead of going back the way we came, skirted\nalong the other arm enclosing the bay to have the cool shade of the\nmountain with us on our return journey.  But the way was rough; the\njungle was dense; we were hot and torn and tired; and the shadow of the\nmountain stretched far out across the foothills by the time the corner\nwas reached.  We sat down to rest at last in the open on the long spur\non which, a couple of miles away, the slanting sun picked out the red\nand black cattle, the white goats, and the brown huts of the kaffir\nkraal.\n\nOur route lay along the side of the spur, skirting the rocky backbone\nand winding between occasional boulders, clumps of trees and bush, and\nwe had moved on only a little way when a loud \"Waugh\" from a baboon on\nthe mountain behind made us stop to look back.  The hoarse shout was\nrepeated several times, and each time more loudly and emphatically; it\nseemed like the warning call of a sentry who had seen us.  Moved by\ncuriosity we turned aside on to the ridge itself, and from the top of a\nbig rock scanned the almost precipitous face opposite.  The spur on\nwhich we stood was divided from the Berg itself only by a deep but\nnarrow kloof or ravine, and every detail of the mountain side stood out\nin the clear evening air, but against the many-coloured rocks the grey\nfigure of a baboon was not easy to find as long as it remained still,\nand although from time to time the barking roar was repeated, we were\nstill scanning the opposite hill when one of the boys pointed down the\nslope immediately below us and called out, \"There, there, Baas!\"\n\nThe troop of baboons had evidently been quite close to us--hidden from\nus only by the little line of rocks--and on getting warning from their\nsentry on the mountain had stolen quietly away and were then\ndisappearing into the timbered depth of the ravine.  We sat still to\nwatch them come out on the opposite side a few minutes later and clamber\nup the rocky face, for they are always worth watching; but while we\nwatched, the stillness was broken by an agonised scream--horribly human\nin its expression of terror--followed by roars, barks, bellows and\nscreams from scores of voices in every key; and the crackle of breaking\nsticks and the rattle of stones added to the medley of sound as the\nbaboons raced out of the wood and up the bare rocky slope.\n\n\"What is it?\"\n\n\"What's the matter?\"\n\n\"There's something after them.\"\n\n\"Look, look! there they come:\" burst from one and another of us as we\nwatched the extraordinary scene.  The cries from below seemed to waken\nthe whole mountain; great booming \"waughs\" came from different places\nfar apart and ever so high up the face of the Berg; each big roar seemed\nto act like a trumpet-call and bring forth a multitude of others; and\nthe air rang with bewildering shouts and echoes volleying round the\nkloofs and faces of the Berg.  The strange thing was that the baboons\ndid not continue their terrified scramble up the mountain, but, once out\nof the bush, they turned and rallied.  Forming an irregular semicircle\nthey faced down hill, thrusting their heads forward with sudden jerks as\nthough to launch their cries with greater vehemence, and feinting to\ncharge; they showered loose earth, stones and debris of all sorts down\nwith awkward underhand scrapes of their fore-paws, and gradually but\nsurely descended to within a dozen yards of the bush's edge.\n\n\"Baas, Baas, the tiger!  Look, the tiger!  There, there on the rock\nbelow!\"\n\nJim shot the words out in vehement gusts, choky with excitement; and\ntrue enough, there the tiger was.  The long spotted body was crouched on\na flat rock just below the baboons; he was broadside to us, with his\nfore-quarters slightly raised and his face turned towards the baboons;\nwith wide-opened mouth he snarled savagely at the advancing line, and\nwith right paw raised made threatening dabs in their direction.  His\nleft paw pinned down the body of a baboon.\n\nThe voices from the mountain boomed louder and nearer as, clattering and\nscrambling down the face, came more and more baboons: there must have\nbeen hundreds of them; the semicircle grew thicker and blacker, more and\nmore threatening, foot by foot closer.  The tiger raised himself a\nlittle more and took swift looks from side to side across the advancing\nfront, and then his nerve went, and with one spring he shot from the\nrock into the bush.\n\nThere was an instant forward rush of the half-moon, and the rock was\ncovered with roaring baboons, swarming over their rescued comrade; and a\nmoment later the crowd scrambled up the slope again, taking the tiger's\nvictim with them.  In that seething rabble I could pick out nothing, but\nall the kaffirs maintained they could see the mauled one dragged along\nby its arms by two others, much as a child might be helped uphill.\n\nWe were still looking excitedly about--trying to make out what the\nbaboons were doing, watching the others still coming down the Berg, and\npeering anxiously for a sight of the tiger--when once more Jim's voice\ngave us a shock.\n\n\"Where are the dogs?\" he asked; and the question turned us cold.  If\nthey had gone after the baboons they were as good as dead already--\nnothing could save them.  Calling was useless: nothing could be heard in\nthe roar and din that the enraged animals still kept up.  We watched the\nother side of the ravine with something more than anxiety, and when\nJock's reddish-looking form broke through the bracken near to the\ntiger's rock, I felt like shutting my eyes till all was over.  We saw\nhim move close under the rock and then disappear.  We watched for some\nseconds--it may have been a minute, but it seemed an eternity--and then,\nfeeling the utter futility of waiting there, jumped off the rock and ran\ndown the slope in the hope that the dogs would hear us call from there.\n\nFrom where the slope was steepest we looked down into the bed of the\nstream at the bottom of the ravine, and the two dogs were there: they\nwere moving cautiously down the wide stony watercourse just as we had\nseen them move in the morning, their noses thrown up and heads turning\nslowly from side to side.  We knew what was coming; there was no time to\nreach them through the bush below; the cries of the baboons made calling\nuseless; and the three of us sat down with rifles levelled ready to fire\nat the first sight.  With gun gripped and breath hard held, watching\nintently every bush and tree and rock, every spot of light and shade, we\nsat--not daring to move.  Then, over the edge of a big rock overlooking\nthe two dogs, appeared something round; and, smoothly yet swiftly and\nwith a snake-like movement, the long spotted body followed the head and,\nflattened against the rock, crept stealthily forward until the tiger\nlooked straight down upon Jess and Jock.\n\nThe three rifles cracked like one, and with a howl of rage and pain the\ntiger shot out over the dogs' heads, raced along the stony bed, and\nsuddenly plunging its nose into the ground, pitched over--dead.\n\nIt was shot through the heart, and down the ribs on each side were the\nscraped marks of the trap.\n\n\nCHAPTER SEVENTEEN.\n\nBUFFALO BUSHFIRE AND WILD DOGS.\n\nThe summer slipped away--the full-pulsed ripeness; of the year; beauty\nand passion; sunshine and storm; long spells of peace and gentleness, of\nspringing life and radiant glory; short intervals of reckless tempest\nand destructive storm!  Among the massed evergreens of the woods there\nstood out here and there bright spots of colour, the careless dabs from\nNature's artist hand; yellow and brown, orange and crimson, all vividly\ndistinct, yet all in perfect harmony.  The rivers, fed from the\nreplenished mountains' stores, ran full but clear; the days were bright;\nthe nights were cold; the grass was rank and seeding; and it was time to\ngo.\n\nOnce more the Bushveld beckoned us away.\n\nWe picked a spot where grass and water were good, and waited for the\nrivers to fall; and it was while loitering there that a small hunting\nparty from the fields making for the Sabi came across us and camped for\nthe night.  In the morning two of our party joined them for a few days\nto try for something big.\n\nIt was too early in the season for really good sport.  The rank tropical\ngrass--six to eight feet high in most places, twelve to fourteen in\nsome--was too green to burn yet, and the stout stems and heavy seed\nheads made walking as difficult as in a field of tangled sugar cane; for\nlong stretches it was not possible to see five yards, and the dew in the\nearly mornings was so heavy that after a hundred yards of such going one\nwas drenched to the skin.\n\nWe were forced into the more open parts--the higher, stonier, more\nbarren ground where just then the bigger game was by no means plentiful.\n\nOn the third day two of us started out to try a new quarter in the hilly\ncountry rising towards the Berg.  My companion, Francis, was an\nexperienced hunter and his idea was that we should find the big game,\nnot on the hot humid flats or the stony rises, but still higher up on\nthe breezy hill tops or in the cool shady kloofs running towards the\nmountains.  We passed a quantity of smaller game that morning, and\nseveral times heard the stampede of big animals--wildebeeste and\nwaterbuck, as we found by the spoor--but it was absolutely impossible to\nsee them.  The dew was so heavy that even our hats were soaking wet, and\ntimes out of number we had to stop to wipe the water out of our eyes in\norder to see our way; a complete ducking would not have made the least\ndifference.\n\nJock fared better than we did, finding openings and game tracks at his\nown level, which were of no use to us; he also knew better than we did\nwhat was going on ahead, and it was tantalising in the extreme to see\nhim slow down and stand with his nose thrown up, giving quick soft\nsniffs and ranging his head from side to side, when he knew there was\nsomething quite close, and knew too that a few more toiling steps in\nthat rank grass would be followed by a rush of something which we would\nnever see.\n\nOnce we heard a foot stamp not twenty yards off, and stood for a couple\nof minutes on tip-toe trying to pierce the screen of grass in front,\nabsolutely certain that eyes and ears were turned on us in death-like\nsilence waiting for the last little proof of the intruder that would\nsatisfy their owners and start them off before we could get a glimpse.\nThe silence must have made them suspicious, for at some signal unknown\nto us the troop broke away and we had the mortification to see\nsomething, which we had ignored as a branch, tilt slowly back and\ndisappear: there was no mistaking the koodoo bull's horns once they\nmoved!\n\nAfter two hours of this we struck a stream, and there we made somewhat\nbetter pace and less noise, often taking to the bed of the creek for\neasier going.  There, too, we found plenty of drinking-places and plenty\nof fresh spoor of the bigger game, and as the hills began to rise in\nview above the bush and trees, we found what Francis was looking for.\nSomething caught his eye on the far side of the stream, and he waded in.\nI followed and when half-way through; saw the contented look on his\nface and caught his words: \"Buffalo!  I thought so!\"\n\nWe sat down then to think it out.  The spoor told of a troop of a dozen\nto sixteen animals--bulls, cows, and calves; and it was that morning's\nspoor: even in the soft moist ground at the stream's edge the water had\nnot yet oozed into most of the prints.  Fortunately there was a light\nbreeze from the hills, and as it seemed probable that in any case they\nwould make that way for the hot part of the day we decided to follow for\nsome distance on the track and then make for the likeliest poort in the\nhills.\n\nThe buffalo had come up from the low country in the night on a course\nstriking the creek diagonally in the drinking-place; their departing\nspoor went off at a slight tangent from the stream--the two trails\nmaking a very wide angle at the drinking-place and confirming the idea\nthat after their night's feed in the rich grass lower down they were\nmaking for the hills again in the morning and had touched at the stream\nto drink.\n\nJock seemed to gather from our whispered conversation and silent\nmovements that there was work to hand, and his eyes moved from one face\nto the other as we talked, much as a child watches the faces in a\nconversation it cannot quite follow.  When we got up and began to move\nalong the trail, he gave one of his little sideways bounds, as if he\nhalf thought of throwing a somersault and restrained himself; and then\nwith several approving waggings of his tail settled down at once to\nbusiness.\n\nJock went in front: it was best so, and quite safe, for, whilst certain\nto spot anything long before we could, there was not the least risk of\nhis rushing it or making any noise.  The slightest whisper of a \"Hst\"\nfrom me would have brought him to a breathless standstill at any moment;\nbut even this was not likely to be needed, for he kept as close a watch\non my face as I did on him.\n\nThere was, of course, no difficulty whatever in following the spoor; the\nanimals were as big as cattle, and their trail through the rank grass\nwas as plain as a road: our difficulty was to get near enough to see\nthem without being heard.  Under the down-trodden grass there were\nplenty of dry sticks to step on, any of which would have been as fatal\nto our chances as a pistol shot, and even the unavoidable rustle of the\ngrass might betray, us while the buffalo themselves remained hidden.\nThus our progress was very slow, a particularly troublesome impediment\nbeing the grass stems thrown down across the trail by the animals\ncrossing and re-crossing each others' spoor and stopping to crop a\nmouthful here and there or perhaps to play.  The tambookie grass in\nthese parts has a stem thicker than a lead pencil, more like young\nbamboo than grass; and these stems thrown cross-ways by storms or game\nmake an entanglement through which the foot cannot be forced: it means\nhigh stepping all the time.\n\nWe expected to follow the spoor for several miles before coming on the\nbuffalo--probably right into the kloof towards which it appeared to\nlead--but were, nevertheless, quite prepared to drop on to them at any\nmoment, knowing well how game will loiter on their way when undisturbed\nand vary their time and course, instinctively avoiding the too regular\nhabits which would make them an easy prey.\n\nJock moved steadily along the trodden track, sliding easily through the\ngrass or jumping softly and noiselessly over impediments, and we\nfollowed, looking ahead as far as the winding course of the trail\npermitted.\n\nTo right and left of us stood the screen of tall grass, bush and trees.\nOnce Jock stopped, throwing up his nose, and stood for some seconds\nwhile we held our breath; but having satisfied himself that there was\nnothing of immediate consequence, he moved on again--rather more slowly,\nas it appeared to us.  I looked at Francis's face; it was pale and set\nlike marble, and his watchful grey eyes were large and wide like an\nantelope's, as though opened out to take in everything; and those\nmoments of intense interest and expectation were the best part of a\nmemorable day.\n\nThere was something near: we felt it!  Jock was going more carefully\nthan ever, with his head up most of the time; and the feeling of\nexpectation grew stronger and stronger until it amounted to absolute\ncertainty.  Then Jock stopped, stopped in mid-stride, not with his nose\nup ranging for scent, but with head erect, ears cocked, and tail\npoised--dead still: he was looking at something.\n\nWe had reached the end of the grass where the bush and trees of the\nmountain slope had choked it out, and before us there was fairly thick\nbush mottled with black shadows and patches of bright sunlight in which\nit was most difficult to see anything.  There we stood like statues, the\ndog in front with the two men abreast behind him, and all peering\nintently.  Twice Jock slowly turned his head and looked into my eyes,\nand I felt keenly the sense of hopeless inferiority.  \"There it is, what\nare you going to do?\" was what the first look seemed to say; and the\nsecond: \"Well, what are you waiting for?\"\n\nHow long we stood thus it is, not possible to say: time is no measure of\nsuch things, and to me it seemed unending suspense; but we stood our\nground scarcely breathing, knowing that something was there, because he\nsaw it and told us so, and knowing that as soon as we moved it would be\ngone.  Then close to the ground there was a movement--something swung,\nand the full picture flashed upon us.  It was a buffalo calf standing in\nthe shade of a big bush with its back towards us, and it was the\nswishing of the tail that had betrayed it.  We dared not breathe a word\nor pass a look--a face turned might have caught some glint of light and\nshown us up; so we stood like statues each knowing that the other was\nlooking for the herd and would fire when he got a chance at one of the\nfull-grown animals.\n\nMy eyes were strained and burning from the intensity of the effort to\nsee; but except the calf I could not make out a living thing: the glare\nof the yellow grass in which we stood, and the sun-splotched darkness\nbeyond it beat me.\n\nAt last, in the corner of my eye, I saw Francis's rifle rise, as\nslowly--almost--as the mercury in a warmed thermometer.  There was a\nlong pause, and then came the shot and wild snorts of alarm and rage.  A\ndozen huge black forms started into life for a second and as quickly\nvanished--scattering and crashing through the jungle.  The first clear\nimpression was that of Jock, who after one swift run forward for a few\nyards stood ready to spring off in pursuit, looking back at me and\nwaiting for the word to go; but at the sign of my raised hand, opened\nwith palm towards him, he subsided slowly and lay down flat with his\nhead resting on his paws.\n\n\"Did you see?\" asked Francis.  \"Not till you fired.  I heard it strike.\nWhat was it?\"\n\n\"Hanged if I know!  I heard it too.  It was one of the big uns; but bull\nor cow I don't know.\"\n\n\"Where did you get it?\"\n\n\"Well, I couldn't make out more than a black patch in the bush.  It\nmoved once, but I couldn't see how it was standing--end on or across.\nIt may be hit anywhere.  I took for the middle of the patch and let\ndrive.  Bit risky, eh?\"\n\n\"Seems like taking chances.\"\n\n\"Well, it was no use waiting: we came for this!\" and then he added with\na careless laugh, \"They always clear from the first shot if you get 'em\nat close quarters, but the fun'll begin now.  Expect he'll lay for us in\nthe track somewhere.\"\n\nThat is the way of the wounded buffalo--we all knew that; and old\nRocky's advice came to mind with a good deal of point: \"Keep cool and\nshoot straight--or stay right home;\" and Jock's expectant watchful look\nsmote me with another memory--\"It was my dawg!\"\n\nA few yards from where the buffalo had stood we picked up the blood\nspoor.  There was not very much of it, but we saw from the marks on the\nbushes here and there, and more distinctly on some grass further on,\nthat the wound was pretty high up and on the right side.  Crossing a\nsmall stretch of more open bush we reached the dense growth along the\nbanks of the stream, and as this continued up into the kloof it was\nclear we had a tough job before us.\n\nAnimals when badly wounded nearly always leave the herd, and very often\ngo down wind so as to be able to scent and avoid their pursuers.  This\nfellow had followed the herd up wind, and that rather puzzled us.\n\nA wounded buffalo in thick bush is considered to be about as nasty a\ncustomer as any one may desire to tackle; for, its vindictive\nindomitable courage and extraordinary cunning are a very formidable\ncombination, as a long list of fatalities bears witness.  Its favourite\ndevice--so old hunters will tell you--is to make off down wind when hit,\nand after going for some distance, come back again in a semicircle to\nintersect its own spoor, and there under good cover lie in wait for\nthose who may follow up.\n\nThis makes the sport quite as interesting as need be, for the chances\nare more nearly even than they generally are in hunting.  The buffalo\nchooses the ground that suits its purpose of ambushing its enemy, and\nnaturally selects a spot where concealment is possible; but, making\nevery allowance for this, it seems little short of a miracle that the\nhuge black beast is able to hide itself so effectually that it can\ncharge from a distance of a dozen yards on to those who are searching\nfor it.\n\nThe secret of it seems to lie in two things: first, absolute stillness;\nand second, breaking up the colour.  No wild animal, except those\nprotected by distance and open country, will stand against a background\nof light or of uniform colour, nor will it as a rule allow its own shape\nto form an unbroken patch against its chosen background.\n\nThey work on Nature's lines.  Look at the ostrich--the cock, black and\nhandsome, so strikingly different from the commonplace grey hen!\nConsidering that for periods of six weeks at a stretch they are anchored\nto one spot hatching the eggs, turn and turn about, it seems that one or\nother must be an easy victim for the beast of prey, since the same\nbackground cannot possibly suit both.  But they know that too; so the\ngrey hen sits by day, and the black cock by night!  And the ostrich is\nnot the fool it is thought to be--burying its head in the sand!  Knowing\nhow the long stem of a neck will catch the eye, it lays it flat on the\nground, as other birds do, when danger threatens the nest or brood, and\nconcealment is better than flight.  That tame chicks will do this in a\nbare paddock is only a laughable assertion of instinct.\n\nLook at the zebra!  There is nothing more striking, nothing that arrests\nthe eye more sharply--in the Zoo--than this vivid contrast of colour;\nyet in the bush the wavy stripes of black and white, are a protection,\nenabling him to hide at will.\n\nI have seen a wildebeeste effectually hidden by a single blighted\nbranch; a koodoo bull, by a few twisty sticks; a crouching lion, by a\nwisp of feathery grass no higher than one's knee, no bigger than a vase\nof flowers!  Yet, the marvel of it is always fresh.\n\nAfter a couple of hundred yards of that sort of going, we changed our\nplan, taking to the creek again and making occasional cross-cuts to the\ntrail, to be sure he was still ahead.  It was certain then that the\nbuffalo was following the herd and making for the poort, and as he had\nnot stopped once on our account we took to the creek after the fourth\ncrosscut and made what pace we could to reach the narrow gorge where we\nreckoned to pick up the spoor again.\n\nThere are, however, few short cuts--and no certainties--in hunting; when\nwe reached the poort there was no trace to be found of the wounded\nbuffalo; the rest of the herd had passed in, but we failed to find blood\nor other trace of the wounded one, and Jock was clearly as much at fault\nas we were.\n\nWe had overshot the mark and there was nothing for it but to hark back\nto the last blood spoor and, by following it up, find out what had\nhappened.  This took over an hour, for we spoored him then with the\nutmost caution, being convinced that the buffalo, if not dead, was badly\nwounded and lying in wait for us.\n\nWe came on his `stand,' in a well-chosen spot, where the game path took\na sharp turn round some heavy bushes.  The buffalo had stood, not where\none would naturally expect it--in the dense cover which seemed just\nsuited for his purpose--but among lighter bush on the _opposite_ side\nand about twenty yards nearer to us.  There was no room for doubt about\nhis hostile intentions; and when we recalled how we had instantly picked\nout the thick bush on the left--to the exclusion of everything else--as\nthe spot to be watched, his selection of more open ground on the other\nside, and nearer to us, seemed so fiendishly clever that it made one\nfeel cold and creepy.  One hesitates to say it was deliberately planned;\nyet--plan, instinct or accident--there was the fact.\n\nThe marks showed us he was badly hit; but there was no limb broken, and\nno doubt he was good for some hours yet.  We followed along the spoor,\nmore cautiously than ever; and when we reached the sharp turn beyond the\nthick bush we found that the path was only a few yards from the stream,\nso that on our way up the bed of the creek we had passed within twenty\nyards of where the buffalo was waiting for us.  No doubt he had heard us\nthen as we walked past, and had winded us later on when we got ahead of\nhim into the poort.  What had he made of it?  What had he done?  Had he\nfollowed up to attack us?  Was he waiting somewhere near?  Or had he\nbroken away into the bush on finding himself headed off?  These were\nsome of the questions we asked ourselves as we crept along.\n\nWell! what he had done did not answer our questions.  On reaching the\npoort again we found his spoor, freshly made since we had been there,\nand he had walked right along through the gorge without stopping again,\nand gone into the kloof beyond.  Whether he had followed us up when we\ngot ahead of him--hoping to stalk us from behind; or had gone ahead,\nexpecting to meet us coming down wind to look for him; or, when he heard\nus pass down stream again--and, it may be, thought we had given up\npursuit--had simply walked on after the herd, were questions never\nanswered.\n\nA breeze had risen since morning, and as we approached the hills it grew\nstronger: in the poort itself it was far too strong for our purpose--the\nwind coming through the narrow opening like a forced draught.  The herd\nwould not stand there, and it was not probable that the wounded animal\nwould stop until he joined the others or reached a more sheltered place.\nWe were keen on the chase, and as he had about an hour's start of us\nand it was already midday, there was no time to waste.\n\nInside the poort the kloof opened out into a big valley away to our\nleft--our left being the right bank of the stream--and bordering the\nvalley on that side there were many miles of timbered kloofs and green\nslopes, with a few kaffir kraals visible in the distance; but to the\nright the formation was quite different, and rather peculiar.  The\nstream--known to the natives as Hlamba-Nyati, or Buffalo's Bathing\nPlace--had in the course of time shortened its course to the poort by\neating into the left bank, thus leaving a high, and in most places,\ninaccessible terrace above it on the left side and a wide stretch of\nflat alluvium on the right.  This terrace was bounded on one side by the\nsteep bank of the creek and walled in on the other side by the\nprecipitous kranses of the mountains.\n\nAt the top end it opened out like a fan which died away in a frayed edge\nin the numberless small kloofs and spurs fringing the amphitheatre of\nthe hills.  The shape was in fact something like the human arm and hand\nwith the fingers outspread.  The elbow was the poort, the arm the\nterrace--except that the terrace was irregularly curved--and the fingers\nthe small kloofs in the mountains.  No doubt the haunts of the buffalo\nwere away in the `fingers,' and we worked steadily along the spoor in\nthat direction.\n\nGame paths were numerous and very irregular, and the place was a perfect\njungle of trees, bush, bramble and the tallest rankest grass.  I have\nridden in that valley many times since then through grass standing\nseveral feet above my head.  It was desperately hard work, but we did\nwant to get the buffalo; and although the place was full of game and we\nput up koodoo, wildebeeste, rietbuck, bushbuck, and duiker, we held to\nthe wounded buffalo's spoor, neglecting all else.\n\nJust before ascending the terrace we had heard the curious\nfar-travelling sound of kaffirs calling to each other from a distance,\nbut, except for a passing comment, paid no heed to it and passed on;\nlater we heard it again and again, and at last, when we happened to\npause in a more open portion of the bush after we had gone half-way\nalong the terrace, the calling became so frequent and came from so many\nquarters that we stopped to take note.  Francis, who spoke Zulu like one\nof themselves, at last made out a word or two which gave the clue.\n\n\"They're after the wounded buffalo!\" he said.  \"Come on, man, before\nthey get their dogs, or we'll never see him again.\"\n\nKnowing then that the buffalo was a long way ahead, we scrambled on as\nfast as we could whilst holding to his track; but it was very hot and\nvery rough and, to add to our troubles, smoke from a grass fire came\ndriving into our faces.\n\n\"Niggers burning on the slopes; confound them!\"  Francis growled.\n\nThey habitually fire the grass in patches during the summer and autumn,\nas soon as it is dry enough to burn, in order to get young grass for the\nwinter or the early spring, and although the smoke worried us there did\nnot seem to be anything unusual about the fire.  But ten minutes later\nwe stopped again; the smoke was perceptibly thicker; birds were flying\npast us down wind, with numbers of locusts and other insects; two or\nthree times we heard buck and other animals break back; and all were\ngoing the same way.  Then the same thought struck us both--it was\nstamped in our faces: this was no ordinary mountain grass fire; it was\nthe bush.\n\nFrancis was a quiet fellow, one of the sort it is well not to rouse.\nHis grave is in the Bushveld where his unbeaten record among intrepid\nlion-hunters was made, and where he fell in the war, leaving another and\ngreater record to his name.  The blood rose slowly to his face, until it\nwas bricky red, and he looked an ugly customer as he said:\n\n\"The black brutes have fired the valley to burn him out.  Come on quick.\nWe must get out of this on to the slopes!\"\n\nWe did not know then that there were no slopes--only a precipitous face\nof rock with dense jungle to the foot of it; and after we had spent a\nquarter of an hour in that effort, we found our way blocked by the krans\nand a tangle of undergrowth much worse than that in the middle of the\nterrace.  The noise made by the wind in the trees and our struggling\nthrough the grass and bush had prevented our hearing the fire at first,\nbut now its ever growing roar drowned all sounds.  Ordinarily, there\nwould have been no real difficulty in avoiding a bush fire; but, pinned\nin between the river and the precipice and with miles of dense bush\nbehind us, it was not at all pleasant.\n\nHad we turned back even then and made for the poort it is possible we\nmight have travelled faster than the fire, but it would have been rough\nwork indeed; moreover, that would have been going back--and we did want\nto get the buffalo--so we decided to make one more try, towards the\nriver this time.  It was not much of a try, however, and we had gone no\nfurther than the middle of the terrace again when it became alarmingly\nclear that this fire meant business.\n\nThe wind increased greatly, as it always does once a bush fire gets a\nstart; the air was thick with smoke, and full of flying things; in the\nbush and grass about us there was a constant scurrying; the terror of\nstampede was in the very atmosphere.  A few words of consultation\ndecided us, and we started to burn a patch for standing room and\nprotection.\n\nThe hot sun and strong wind had long evaporated all the dew and moisture\nfrom the grass, but the sap was still up, and the fire--our fire--seemed\ncruelly long in catching on.  With bunches of dry grass for brands we\nstarted burns in twenty places over a length of a hundred yards, and\neach little flame licked up, spread a little, and then hesitated or died\nout: it seemed as if ours would never take, while the other came on with\nroars and leaps, sweeping clouds of sparks and ash over us in the dense\nrolling mass of smoke.\n\nAt last a fierce rush of wind struck down on us, and in a few seconds\neach little flame became a living demon of destruction; another minute,\nand the stretch before us was a field of swaying flame.  There was a\nsudden roar and crackle, as of musketry, and the whole mass seemed\nlifted into the air in one blazing sheet: it simply leaped into life and\nswept everything before it.\n\nWhen we opened our scorched eyes the ground in front of us was all\nblack, with only here and there odd lights and torches dotted about--\nlike tapers on a pall; and on ahead, beyond the trellis work of bare\nscorched trees, the wall of flame swept on.\n\nThen down on the wings of the wind came the other fire; and before it\nfled every living thing.  Heaven only knows what passed us in those few\nminutes when a broken stream of terrified creatures dashed by, hardly\nswerving to avoid us.  There is no coherent picture left of that scene--\njust a medley of impressions linked up by flashes of unforgettable\nvividness.  A herd of koodoo came crashing by; I know there was a herd,\nbut only the first and last will come to mind--the space between seems\nblurred.  The clear impressions are of the koodoo bull in front, with\nnose out-thrust, eyes shut against the bush, and great horns laid back\nupon the withers, as he swept along opening the way for his herd; and\nthen, as they vanished, the big ears, ewe neck, and tilting hind\nquarters of the last cow--between them nothing but a mass of moving\ngrey!\n\nThe wildebeeste went by in Indian-file, uniform in shape, colour and\nhorns; and strangely uniform in their mechanical action, lowered heads,\nand fiercely determined rush.\n\nA rietbuck ram stopped close to us, looked back wide-eyed and anxious,\nand whistled shrilly, and then cantered on with head erect and white\ntail flapping; but its mate neither answered nor came by.  A terrified\nhare with its ears laid flat scuttled past within a yard of Francis and\ndid not seem to see him.  Above us scared birds swept or fluttered down\nwind; while others again came up swirling and swinging about, darting\nboldly through the smoke to catch the insects driven before the fire.\n\nBut what comes back with the suggestion of infinitely pathetic\nhelplessness is the picture of a beetle.  We stood on the edge of our\nburn, waiting for the ground to cool, and at my feet a pair of\ntock-tockie beetles, hump backed and bandy-legged, came toiling slowly\nand earnestly along; they reached the edge of our burn, touched the warm\nash, and turned patiently aside--to walk round it!\n\nA school of chattering monkeys raced out on to the blackened flat, and\nscreamed shrilly with terror as the hot earth and cinders burnt their\nfeet.\n\nPorcupine, ant-bear, meerkat!  They are vague, so vague that nothing is\nleft but the shadow of their passing; but there is one other thing--seen\nin a flash as brief as the others, for a second or two only, but never\nto be forgotten!  Out of the yellow grass, high up in the waving tops,\ncame sailing down on us the swaying head and glittering eyes of a black\nmamba--swiftest, most vicious, most deadly of snakes.  Francis and I\nwere not five yards apart and it passed between us, giving a quick\nchilly beady look at each--pitiless, and hateful--and one hiss as the\nslithering tongue shot out: that was all, and it sailed past with\nstrange effortless movement.  How much of the body was on the ground\npropelling it, I cannot even guess; but we had to look upwards to see\nthe head as the snake passed between us.\n\nThe scorching breath of the fire drove us before it on to the baked\nground, inches deep in ashes and glowing cinders, where we kept marking\ntime to ease our blistering feet; our hats were pulled down to screen\nour necks as we stood with our backs to the coming flames; our flannel\nshirts were so hot that we kept shifting our shoulders for relief.\nJock, who had no screen and whose feet had no protection, was in my\narms; and we strove to shield ourselves from the furnace-blast with the\nbranches we had used to beat out the fire round the big tree which was\nour main shelter.\n\nThe heat was awful!  Live brands were flying past all the time, and some\nstruck us; myriads of sparks fell round and on us, burning numberless\nsmall holes in our clothing, and dotting blisters on our backs; great\nsheets of flame leaped out from the driving glare, and, detached by many\nyards from their source, were visible for quite a space in front of us.\nThen, just at its maddest and fiercest there came a gasp and sob, and\nthe fire devil died behind us as it reached the black bare ground.  Our\nburn divided it as an island splits the flood, and it swept along our\nflanks in two great walls of living leaping roaring flame.\n\nTwo hundred yards away there was a bare yellow place in a world of inky\nblack, and to that haven we ran.  It was strange to look about and see\nthe naked country all round us, where but a few minutes earlier the tall\ngrass had shut us in; but the big bare ant-heap was untouched, and there\nwe flung ourselves down, utterly done.\n\nFaint from heat and exhaustion--scorched and blistered, face and arms,\nback and feet; weary and footsore, and with boots burnt through--we\nreached camp long after dark, glad to be alive.\n\nWe had forgotten the wounded buffalo; he seemed part of another life!\n\n------------------------------------------------------------------------\n\nThere was no more hunting for us: our feet had `gone in,' and we were\nwell content to sleep and rest.  The burnt stubbly ends of the grass had\npierced the baked leather of our boots many times; and Jock, too, had\nsuffered badly and could hardly bear to set foot to the ground next day.\nThe best we could hope for was to be sound enough to return to our own\nwaggons in two or three days' time.\n\nThe camp was under a very large wild fig tree, whose dense canopy gave\nus shade all through the day.  We had burnt the grass for some twenty or\nthirty yards round as a protection against bush fires; and as the trees\nand scrub were not thick just there it was possible to see in various\ndirections rather further than one usually can in the Bushveld.  The big\ntree was a fair landmark by day, and at night we made a good fire, which\nowing to the position of the camp one could see from a considerable\ndistance.  These precautions were for the benefit of strayed or belated\nmembers of the party; but I mention them because the position of the\ncamp and the fire brought us a strange visitor the last night of our\nstay there.\n\nThere were, I think, seven white men; and the moving spirit of the\nparty--old Teddy Blacklow of Ballarat--was one of the old alluvial\ndiggers, a warmhearted, impulsive, ever-young old boy, and a rare good\nsportsman.  That was Teddy, the `man in muddy moleskins,' who stretched\nout the hand of friendship when the Boy was down, and said \"You come\nalong o' me!\" one of `God's sort.'\n\nTeddy's spirits were always up; his presence breathed a cheery optimism\non the blankest day; his humour lighted everything; _his_ stories kept\nus going; and his language was a joy for ever.  In a community, in which\nsuch things savoured of eccentricity, Teddy was an abstainer and never\nswore; but if actual profanity was avoided, the dear old boy all\nunconsciously afforded strong support to those who hold that a man must\nfind relief in vigorous expression.  To do this, without violating his\nprinciples, he invented words and phrases, meaningless in themselves but\nin general outline, so to say, resembling the worst in vogue; and the\neffect produced by them upon the sensitive was simply horrifying.  Teddy\nhimself was blissfully unconscious of this, for his language, being\nscrupulously innocent, was deemed by him to be suited to all\ncircumstances and to every company.  The inevitable consequence was that\nthe first impression produced by him on the few women he ever met was\nthat of an abandoned old reprobate whose scant veil of disguise only\nmade the outrage of his language more marked.  Poor old Teddy!  Kindest\nand gentlest and dearest of souls!  How he would have stared at this,\nspeechless with surprise; and how we used to laugh at what some one\ncalled his `glittering paro-fanities!'  Pity it is that they too must\ngo; for one dare not reproduce the best of them.\n\nIt was between eight and nine o'clock on the last day of our stay;\nFrancis and I were fit again, and Jock's feet, thanks to care and\nwashing and plenty of castor oil, no longer troubled him; we were\nexamining our boots--re-soled now with raw hide in the rough but\neffective veld fashion; Teddy was holding forth about the day's chase\nwhilst he cut away the pith of a koodoo's horns and scraped the skull;\nothers were busy on their trophies too; and the kaffirs round their own\nfire were keeping up the simultaneous gabble characteristic of hunting\nboys after a good day and with plenty of meat in camp.\n\nI was sitting on a small camp stool critically examining a boot and\nwondering if the dried hide would grip well enough to permit of the top\nlacings being removed, and Jock was lying in front of me, carefully\nlicking the last sore spot on one fore paw, when I saw his head switch\nup suddenly and his whole body set hard in a study of intense listening.\nThen he got up and trotted briskly off some ten or fifteen yards, and\nstood--a bright spot picked out by the glare of the camp fire--with his\nback towards me and his uneven ears topping him off.\n\nI walked out to him, and silence fell on the camp; all watched and\nlistened.  At first we heard nothing but soon the call of a wild dog\nexplained Jock's movements; the sound, however, did not come from the\ndirection in which he was looking, but a good deal to the right; and as\nhe instantly looked to this new quarter I concluded that this was not\nthe dog he had previously heard, or else it must have moved rapidly.\nThere was another wait, and then there followed calls from other\nquarters.\n\nThere was nothing unusual in the presence of wild dogs: hyenas, jackals,\nwild dogs and all the smaller beasts of prey were heard nightly; what\nattracted attention in this case was the regular calling from different\npoints.  The boys said the wild dogs were hunting something and calling\nto each other to indicate the direction of the hunt, so that those in\nfront might turn the buck and by keeping it in a circle enable fresh or\nrested dogs to jump in from time to time and so, eventually, wear the\npoor hunted creature down.  This, according to the natives, is the\nsystem of the wild pack.  When they cannot find easy prey in the young,\nweak or wounded, and are forced by hunger to hunt hard, they first\nscatter widely over the chosen area where game is located, and then one\nbuck is chosen--the easiest victim, a ewe with young for choice--and\ncutting it out from the herd, they follow that one and that alone with\nremorseless invincible persistency.  They begin the hunt knowing that it\nwill last for hours--knowing too that in speed they have no chance\nagainst the buck--and when the intended victim is cut out from the herd\none or two of the dogs--so the natives say--take up the chase and with\nlong easy gallop keep it going, giving no moment's rest for breath; from\ntime to time they give their weird peculiar call and others of the\npack--posted afar--head the buck off to turn it back again; the fresh\nones then take up the chase, and the first pair drop out to rest and\nwait, or follow slowly until their chance and turn come round again.\nThere is something so hateful in the calculated pitiless method that one\nfeels it a duty to kill the cruel brutes whenever a chance occurs.\n\nThe hunt went on round us; sometimes near enough to hear the dogs' eager\ncries quite clearly; sometimes so far away that for a while nothing\ncould be heard; and Jock moved from point to point in the outermost\ncircle of the camp fire's light nearest to the chase.\n\nWhen at last hunters and hunted completed their wide circuit round the\ncamp, and passed again the point where we had first heard them, the end\nseemed near; for there were no longer single calls widely separated, but\nthe voices of the pack in hot close chase.  They seemed to be passing\nhalf a mile away from us; but in the stillness of the night sound\ntravels far, and one can only guess.  Again a little while and the cries\nsounded nearer and as if coming from one quarter--not moving round us as\nbefore; and a few minutes more, and it was certain they were still\nnearer and coming straight towards us.  We took our guns then, and I\ncalled Jock back to where we stood under the tree with our backs to the\nfire.\n\nThe growing sounds came on out of the night where all was hidden with\nthe weird crescendo effect of a coming flood; we could pick them out\nthen--the louder harsher cries; the crashing through bush; the rush in\ngrass; the sobbing gasps in front; and the hungry panting after.  The\nhunt came at us like a cyclone out of the stillness, and in the\nforefront of it there burst into the circle of light an impala ewe with\nopen mouth and haunting hunted despairing eyes and wide spread ears; and\nthe last staggering strides brought her in among us, tumbling at our\nfeet.\n\nA kaffir jumped out with assegai aloft; but Teddy, with the spring of a\ntiger and a yell of rage, swung his rifle round and down on assegai arm\nand head, and dropped the boy in his tracks.\n\n\"Go-sh!--Da-ll!  Cr-r-r-i-miny!  What the Hex are you up to?\" and the\nfiery soft-hearted old boy was down on to his knees in a second, panting\nwith anger and excitement, and threw his arms about the buck.\n\nThe foremost of the pack followed hot foot close behind the buck--\noblivious of fire and men, seeing nothing but the quarry--and at a\ndistance of five yards a mixed volley of bullets and assegais tumbled it\nover.  Another followed, and again another: both fell where they had\nstopped, a dozen yards away, puzzled by the fire and the shooting; and\nstill more and more came on, but, warned by the unexpected check in\nfront, they stopped at the clearing's edge, until over twenty pairs of\neyes reflecting the fire's light shone out at us in a rough semicircle.\nThe shot guns came in better then; and more than half the pack went\nunder that night before the others cleared off.  Perhaps they did not\nrealise that the shots and flashes were not part of the camp fire from\nwhich they seemed to come; perhaps their system of never relinquishing a\nchase had not been tried against the white man before.\n\nOne of the wild dogs, wounded by a shot, seemed to go mad with agony and\nraced straight into the clearing towards the fire, uttering the\nstrangest maniac-like yaps.  Jock had all along been straining to go for\nthem from where I had jammed him between my feet as I sat and fired, and\nthe charge of this dog was more than he could bear: he shot out like a\nrocket, and the collision sent the two flying apart; but he was on to\nthe wild dog again and had it by the throat before it could recover.\nInstantly the row of lights went out, as if switched off--they were no\nlonger looking at us; there was a rustle and a sound of padded feet, and\ndim grey-looking forms gathered at the edge of the clearing nearest\nwhere Jock and the wounded dog fought.  I shouted to Jock to come back,\nand several of us ran out to help, just as another of the pack made a\ndash in.  It seemed certain that Jock, gripping and worrying his enemy's\nthroat, had neither time nor thought for anything else; yet as the fresh\ndog came at him he let go his grip of the other, and jumped to meet the\nnew-comer; in mid-spring Jock caught the other by the ear and the two\nspun completely round--their positions being reversed; then, with\nanother wrench as he landed, he flung the attacker behind him and jumped\nback at the wounded one which had already turned to go.\n\nIt looked like the clean and easy movement of a finished gymnast.  It\nwas an affair of a few seconds only, for of course the instant we got a\nchance at the dogs, without the risk to Jock, both were shot; and he,\nstruggling to get at the others, was haled back to the tree.\n\nWhile this was going on the impala stood with wide spread legs, dazed\nand helpless, between Teddy's feet, just as he had placed it.  Its\nbreath came in broken choking sobs; the look of terror and despair had\nnot yet faded from the staring eyes; the head swayed from side to side;\nthe mouth hung open and the tongue lolled out; all told beyond the power\nof words the tale of desperate struggle and exhaustion.  It drank\ngreedily from the dish that Teddy held for it--emptied it, and five\nminutes later drank it again and then lay down.\n\nFor half an hour it lay there, slowly recovering; sometimes for spells\nof a few minutes it appeared to breathe normally once more; then the\nheavy open-mouthed panting would return again; and all the time Teddy\nkept on stroking or patting it gently and talking to it as if he were\ncomforting a child, and every now and then bursting out with sudden\ngusty execrations, in his own particular style, of wild dogs and\nkaffirs.  At last it rose briskly, and standing between his knees looked\nabout, taking no notice of Teddy's hands laid on either side and gently\npatting it.  No one moved or spoke.  Jock, at my feet, appeared most\ninterested of all, but I am afraid his views differed considerably from\nours on that occasion, and he must have been greatly puzzled; he\nremained watching intently with his head laid on his paws, his ears\ncocked, and his brown eyes fixed unblinkingly; and at each movement on\nthe buck's part something stirred in him, drawing every muscle tense and\nready for the spring--internal grips which were reflected in the\ntwitching and stiffening of his neck and back; but each time as I laid a\nhand on him he slackened out again and subsided.\n\nWe sat like statues as the impala walked out from its stall between\nTeddy's knees, and stood looking about wonderingly at the faces white\nand black, at the strange figures, and at the fire.  It stepped out\nquite quietly, much as it might have moved about here and there any\npeaceful morning in its usual haunts; the head swung about briskly, but\nunalarmed; and ears and eyes were turned this way and that in easy\nconfidence and mild curiosity.\n\nWith a few more steps it threaded its way close to one sitting figure\nand round a bucket; stepped daintily over Teddy's rifle; and passed the\nkoodoo's head unnoticed.\n\nIt seemed to us--even to us, and at the moment--like a scene in\nfairyland in which some spell held us while the beautiful wild thing\nstrolled about unfrightened.\n\nA few yards away it stopped for perhaps a couple of minutes; its back\nwas towards us and the fire; the silence was absolute; and it stood thus\nwith eyes and ears for the bush alone.  There was a warning whisk of the\nwhite tail and it started off again--this time at a brisk trot--and we\nthought it had gone; but at the edge of the clearing it once more stood\nand listened.  Now and again the ears flickered and the head turned\nslightly one way or another, but no sound came from the bush; the\nout-thrust nose was raised with gentle tosses, but no taint reached it\non the gentle breeze.\n\nAll was well!\n\nIt looked slowly round, giving one long full gaze back at us which\nseemed to be \"Good-bye, and--thank you!\" and cantered out into the dark.\n\n\nCHAPTER EIGHTEEN.\n\nSNOWBALL AND TSETSE.\n\nSnowball was an `old soldier'--I say it with all respect!  He had been\nthrough the wars; that is to say, he had seen the ups and downs of life\nand had learnt the equine equivalent of \"God helps those who help\nthemselves.\"  For Snowball was a horse.\n\nTsetse was also an old soldier, but he was what you might call a\ngentleman old soldier, with a sense of duty; and in his case the\ndiscipline and honour of his calling were not garments for occasion but\npart of himself.  Snowball was no gentleman: he was selfish and\nunscrupulous, a confirmed shirker, often absent without leave, and upon\noccasions a rank deserter--for which last he once narrowly escaped being\nshot.\n\nTsetse belonged to my friend Hall; but Snowball was mine!  What I know\nabout him was learnt with mortification of the spirit and flesh; and\nwhat he could not teach in that way was `over the head' of the most\nindurated old dodger that ever lived.\n\nTsetse had his peculiarities and prejudices: like many old soldiers he\nwas a stickler for etiquette and did not like departures from habit and\nroutine; for instance, he would not under any circumstances permit\nmounting on the wrong side--a most preposterous stand for an old salted\nshooting horse to take, and the cause of much inconvenience at times.\nOn the mountains it often happened that the path was too narrow and the\nslope too steep to permit one to mount on the left side, whereas the\nsharp rise of the ground made it very easy on the right.  But Tsetse\nmade no allowance for this, and if the attempt were made he would stand\nquite still until the rider was off the ground but not yet in the\nsaddle, and then buck continuously until the offender shot overhead and\nwent skidding down the slope.  To one encumbered with a rifle in hand,\nand a kettle or perhaps a couple of legs of buck slung on the saddle,\nTsetse's protest was usually irresistible.\n\nSnowball had no unpractical prejudices: he objected to work--that was\nall.  He was a pure white horse, goodness knows how old, with enormously\nlong teeth; every vestige of grey or other tinge had faded out of him,\nand his eyes had an aged and resigned look: one warmed to him at sight\nas a \"dear old pet of a Dobbin!\" who ought to be passing his last years\ngrazing contentedly in a meadow and giving bareback rides to little\nchildren.  The reproach of his venerable look nearly put me off taking\nhim--it seemed such a shame to make the dear old fellow work; but I\nhardened my heart and, feeling rather a brute, bought him because he was\n`salted' and would live in the Bushveld: beside that, all other\nconsiderations were trivial.  Of course he was said to be a shooting\nhorse, and he certainly took no notice of a gun fired under his nose or\nfrom his back--which was all the test I could apply at the time; and\nthen his legs were quite sound; his feet were excellent; he had lost no\nteeth yet; and he was in tip top condition.  What more could one want?\n\n\"He looks rather a fool of a horse!\"  I had remarked dubiously to Joey\nthe Smith, who was `willin' to let him go,' and I can recall now the\npeculiar glint in Joey's eye and the way he sort of steadied himself\nwith a little cough before he answered feelingly:\n\n\"He's no fool, sonny!  You won't want to get a cleverer horse as long as\nyou live!\"  And no more I did--as we used to say!  Snowball had one\ndisfigurement, consisting of a large black swelling as big as a small\norange behind his left eye, which must have annoyed him greatly; it\ncould easily have been removed, and many suggestions were made on the\nsubject but all of them were firmly declined.  Without that lump I\nshould have had no chance against him: it was the weak spot in his\ndefence: it was the only cover under which it was possible to stalk him\nwhen he made one of his determined attempts to dodge or desert; for he\ncould see nothing that came up behind him on the left side without\nturning his head completely round; hence one part of the country was\nalways hidden from him, and of course it was from this quarter that we\ninvariably made our approaches to attack.\n\nSo well did Snowball realise this that when the old villain intended\ngiving trouble he would start off with his head swung away to the right,\nand when far enough away to graze in security--a hundred yards or so was\nenough--would turn right about and face towards the waggons or camp, or\nwherever the danger-quarter was; then, keeping us well in view, he would\neither graze off sideways, or from time to time walk briskly off to\noccupy a new place, with the right eye swung round on us like a\nsearch-light.\n\nAgainst all this, however, it is only fair to admit that there were\ntimes when for days, and even weeks, at a stretch he would behave\nadmirably, giving no more trouble than Jock did.  Moreover he had\nqualities which were not to be despised.  He was as sound as a bell,\nvery clever on his feet, never lost his condition, and, although not\nfast, could last for ever at his own pace.\n\nExperience taught me to take no chances with Snowball.  After a hard day\nhe was apt to think that `enough was as good as a feast,' and then\ntrouble might be expected.  But there was really no safe rule with him;\nhe seemed to have moods--to `get out of bed on the wrong side'--on\ncertain days and, for no reason in the world, behave with a calculated\nhostility that was simply maddening.\n\nHunting horses live almost entirely by grazing, as it is seldom possible\nto carry any grain or other foods for them and never possible to carry\nenough; and salted horses have therefore a particular value in that they\ncan be turned out to graze at night or in the morning and evening dews\nwhen animals not immunised will contract horse-sickness; thus they feed\nduring the hours when hunting is not possible and keep their condition\nwhen an unsalted horse would fall away from sheer want of food.\n\nAccording to their training, disposition, and knowledge of good and\nevil, horses are differently treated when `offsaddled'; some may be\ntrusted without even a halter, and can be caught and saddled when and\nwhere required; others are knee-haltered; others are hobbled by a strap\ncoupling either both fore feet, or one fore and one hind foot, with\nenough slack to allow walking, but not enough for the greater reach of a\ntrot or gallop; whilst some incorrigibles are both knee-haltered and\nhobbled; and in this gallery Snowball figured upon occasion--a mournful\nand injured innocent, if appearances went for anything!\n\nIt was not, as a rule, at the outspan, where many hands were available,\nthat Snowball gave trouble, but out hunting when I was alone or with\nonly one companion.  A trained shooting horse should stop as soon as his\nrider lays hand on mane to dismount, and should remain where he is left\nfor any length of time until his master returns; some horses require the\nreins to be dropped over their heads to remind them of their duty but\nmany can safely be left to themselves and will be found grazing quietly\nwhere left.\n\nSnowball knew well what to do, but he pleased himself about doing it;\nsometimes he would stand; sometimes move off a little way, and keep\nmoving--just out of reach--holding his head well on one side so that he\nshould not tread on the trailing reins or the long weighted reimpje\nwhich was attached to his bit for the purpose of hindering and catching\nhim; sometimes, with a troop of buck moving on ahead or perhaps a\nwounded one to follow, this old sinner would rightabout-face and simply\nwalk off--only a few yards separating us--with his ears laid back, his\ntail tucked down ominously, and occasional little liftings of his hind\nquarters to let me know what to expect--and his right eye on me all the\nwhile; and, if I ran to head him off, he would break into a trot and\nleave me a little worse off than before; and sometimes, in familiar\ncountry, he would make straight away for the waggons without more ado.\n\nIt is demoralising in the extreme to be expecting a jerk when in the act\nof aiming--and Snowball, who cared no more for shooting than a deaf\ngunner, would plunge like a two-year-old when he was play-acting--and it\nis little better, while creeping forward for a shot, to hear your horse\nstrolling off behind and realise that you will have to hunt for him and\nperhaps walk many miles back to camp without means of carrying anything\nyou may shoot.  The result of experience was that I had to choose\nbetween two alternatives: either to hook him up to a tree or bush each\ntime or hobble him with his reins, and so lose many good chances of\nquick shots when coming unexpectedly on game; or to slip an arm through\nthe reins and take chance of being plucked off my aim or jerked\nviolently backwards as I fired.  But it was at the `offsaddles' on long\njourneys across country or during the rest in a day's hunt that trouble\nwas most to be feared, and although hobbling is dangerous in a country\nso full of holes, stumps, and all sorts of grass-hidden obstacles, there\nwere times when consideration for Snowball seemed mighty like pure\nfoolishness, and it would have been no grief to me if he had broken his\nneck!\n\nTo the credit of Snowball stand certain things, however, and it is but\njustice to say that, when once in the ranks, he played his part well;\nand it is due to him to say that during one hard season a camp of\nwaggons with their complement of men had to be kept in meat, and it was\nSnowball who carried--for short and long distances, through dry rough\ncountry, at all times of day and night, hot, thirsty and tired, and\nwithout a breakdown or a day's sickness--a bag that totalled many\nthousands of pounds in weight, and the man who made the bag.\n\n\"That wall-eyed brute of yours\" was launched at me in bitterness of\nspirit on many occasions when Snowball led the normally well-behaved\nones astray; and it is curious to note how strength of character or\nclear purpose will establish leadership among animals, as among men.\nRooiland the restless, when dissatisfied with the grass or in want of\nwater, would cast about up wind for a few minutes and then with his hot\neyeballs staring and nostrils well distended choose his line, going\nresolutely along and only pausing from time to time to give a low moan\nfor signal and allow the straggling string of unquestioning followers to\ncatch up.  When Rooiland had `trek fever' there was no rest for herd\nboys.  So too with old Snowball: he led the well-behaved astray and they\nfollowed him blindly.  Had Snowball been a schoolboy, a wise headmaster\nwould have expelled him--for the general good and discipline of the\nschool.\n\nOn one long horseback journey through Swaziland to the coast, where few\nwhite men and no horses had yet been seen, we learned to know Snowball\nand Tsetse well, and found out what a horse can do when put to it.  It\nwas a curious experience on that trip to see whole villages flee in\nterror at the first sight of the new strange animals--one brown and one\nwhite: in some places not even the grown men would approach, but too\nproud to show fear, they stood their ground, their bronze faces\nblanching visibly and setting hard as we rode up; the women fled with\nhalf-stifled cries of alarm; and once, when we came unexpectedly upon a\nparty of naked urchins playing on the banks of a stream, the whole pack\nset off full cry for the water and, jumping in like a school of alarmed\nfrogs, disappeared.  Infinitely amused by the stampede we rode up to see\nwhat had become of them, but the silence was absolute, and for a while\nthey seemed to have vanished altogether; then a tell-tale ripple gave\nthe clue, and under the banks among the ferns and exposed roots we\npicked out little black faces half submerged and pairs of frightened\neyes staring at us from all sides.  They were not to be reassured,\neither: the only effect produced by our laughing comments and friendly\novertures being that the head which deemed itself pointedly addressed\nwould disappear completely and remain so long out of sight as to make us\nfeel quite smothery and criminally responsible.\n\nIt is in the rivers that a man feels the importance of a good horse with\na stout heart, and his dependence on it.  There were no roads, and not\neven known tracks, there; and when we reached the Black Umbelusi we\npicked a place where there was little current and apparently an easy way\nout on the opposite side.  It was much deeper than it looked; however,\nwe were prepared, and thirty yards of swimming did not trouble us; yet\nit certainly was a surprise to us when the horses swam right up to the\nother bank without finding bottom and, turning aside, began to swim up\nstream.  Looking down into the clear depths we saw that there was a\nsheer wall of rock to within a few inches of the surface.  Now, a horse\nwith a man on his back swims low--only the head and half the neck\nshowing above water--and by what instinct or means the horses realised\nthe position I do not know, but, with little hesitation and apparently\nof one accord, they got back a yard or two from the ledge and, raising\nfirst one fore foot and then the other, literally climbed out--exactly\nas a man or a dog does out of a swimming bath--hoisting their riders out\nwith them without apparent difficulty.  That was something which we had\nnot thought possible, and to satisfy ourselves we dismounted and tried\nthe depth; but the ten foot reeds failed to reach bottom.\n\nWhen it came to crossing the Crocodile River we chose the widest spot in\nthe hope that it would be shallow and free of rocks.  We fired some\nshots into the river to scare the crocodiles, and started to cross; but\nto our surprise Tsetse, the strong-nerved and reliable, who always had\nthe post of honour in front, absolutely refused to enter.\n\nThe water of the Crocodile is at its best of amber clearness and we\ncould not see bottom, but the sloping grassy bank promised well enough\nand no hint reached us of what the horses knew quite well.  All we had\nwas on our horses--food, blankets, billy, rifles and ammunition.  We\nwere off on a long trip and, to vary or supplement the game diet,\ncarried a small packet of tea, a little sugar, flour, and salt, and some\nbeads with which to trade for native fowls and thick milk; the guns had\nto do the rest.  Thus there were certain things we could not afford to\nwet, and these we used to wrap up in a mackintosh and carry high when it\ncame to swimming, but this crossing looked so easy that it seemed\nsufficient to raise the packs instead of carrying part of them.\n\nTsetse, who in the ordinary way regarded the spur as part of the\naccepted discipline, promptly resented it when there seemed to him to be\nsufficient reason; and when Hall, astonished at Tsetse's unexpected\nobstinacy, gave him both heels, the old horse considerately swung round\naway from the river, and with a couple of neatly executed bucks shot his\nencumbered rider off the raised pack, yards away on to the soft grass--\nwater-bottle, rifle, bandolier and man landing in a lovely tangle.\n\nI then put old Snowball at it, fully expecting trouble; but the old\nsoldier was quite at home; he walked quietly to the edge, sat down\ncomfortably, and slid into the water--launching himself with scarce a\nripple just like an old hippo.  That gave us the explanation of Tsetse's\ntantrum: the water came up to the seat of my saddle and walking was only\njust possible.  I stopped at once, waiting for Tsetse to follow; and\nHall, prepared for another refusal, sat back and again used his spurs.\nNo doubt Tsetse, once he knew the depth, was quite satisfied and meant\nto go in quietly, and the prick of the spur must have been unexpected,\nfor he gave a plunge forward, landing with his fore feet in deep water\nand hind quarters still on the bank, and Hall shot out overhead, landing\nhalf across old Snowball's back.  There was a moment of ludicrous but\nagonised suspense!  Hall's legs were firmly gripping Tsetse behind the\nears while he sprawled on his stomach on Snowball's crupper, with the\nreins still in one hand and the rifle in the other.  Doubled up with\nsuppressed laughter I grabbed a fist full of shirt and held on, every\nmoment expecting Tsetse to hoist his head or pull back and complete the\ndisaster, while Hall was spluttering out directions, entreaties and\nimprecations; but good old Tsetse never moved, and Hall handing me the\nrifle managed to swarm backwards on to Tsetse's withers and scramble on\nto the pack again.\n\nThen, saddle-deep in the river--duckings and crocodiles forgotten--we\nsat looking at each other and laughed till we ached.\n\nThe river was about three hundred yards wide there with a good sandy\nbottom and of uniform depth, but, to our disappointment, we found that\nthe other bank which had appeared to slope gently to the water edge was\nin fact a sheer wall standing up several feet above the river level.\nThe beautiful slope which we had seen consisted of water grass and reed\ntops; the bank itself was of firm moist clay; and the river bottom close\nunder it was soft mud.  We tried a little way up and down, but found\ndeeper water, more mud and reeds, and no break in the bank; there was\nnot even a lagavaan slide, a game path, or a drinking-place.  There\nseemed to be nothing for it but to go back again and try somewhere else.\n\nHall was `bad to beat' when he started on anything--he did not know how\nto give in; but when he looked at the bank and said, \"We'll have a shot\nat this,\" I thought at first he was joking.  Later, to my remark that\n\"no horse ever born would face that,\" he answered that \"any way we could\ntry: it would be just as good as hunting for more places of the same\nsort!\"\n\nI do not know the height of the bank, as we were not thinking of records\nat that time, but there are certain facts which enable one to guess\nfairly closely.\n\nTsetse was ranged up beside the bank, and Hall standing in the saddle\nthrew his rifle and bandolier up and scrambled out himself.  I then\nloosened Tsetse's girths from my seat on Snowball, and handed up the\npacked saddle--Hall lying down on the bank to take it from me; and we\ndid the same with Snowball's load, including my own clothes, for, as it\nwas already sundown, a ducking was not desirable, I loosened one side of\nTsetse's reins, and after attaching one of mine in order to give the\nnecessary length to them threw the end up to Hall, and he cut and handed\nme a long supple rod for a whip to stir Tsetse to his best endeavours.\nThe water there was rather more than half saddle-flap high; I know that\nbecause it just left me a good expanse of hind quarters to aim at when\nthe moment came.\n\n\"Now!\" yelled Hall, \"Up, Tsetse!  Up!\"; and whack went the stick!\nTsetse reared up, right on end; he could not reach the top but struck\nhis fore feet into the moist bank near the top, and with a mighty plunge\nthat soused Snowball and me, went out.  The tug on the leading rein, on\nwhich Hall had thrown all his weight when Tsetse used it to lever\nhimself up, had jerked Hall flat on his face; but he was up in a minute,\nand releasing Tsetse threw back the rein to get Snowball to face it\nwhile the example was fresh.\n\nThen for the first time we thought of the crocodiles--and the river was\nfull of them!  But Snowball without some one behind him with a stick\nwould never face that jump, and there was nothing for it but to fire\nsome scaring shots, and slip into the water and get the job over as\nquickly as possible.\n\nSnarleyow was with us--I had left Jock at the waggons fearing that we\nwould get into fly country on the Umbelusi--and the bank was too high\nand too steep for him; he huddled up against it half supported by reeds,\nand whined plaintively.\n\nTo our relief Snowball faced the jump quite readily; indeed, the old\nsinner did it with much less effort and splash than the bigger Tsetse.\nBut then came an extremely unpleasant spell.  Snowball got a scare,\nbecause Hall in his anxiety to get me out rushed up to him on the warty\nside to get the reins off; and the old ruffian waltzed around, dragging\nHall through the thorns, while Snarleyow and I waited in the water for\nhelp.\n\nAt that moment I had a poorer opinion of Snowball and Snarley than at\nany other I can remember.  I wished Snarley dead twenty times in twenty\nseconds.  Crocodiles love dogs; and it seemed to me a million to one\nthat a pair of green eyes and a black snout must slide out of the water\nany moment, drawn to us by those advertising whines!  And the worst of\nit was, I was outside Snarley with my white legs gleaming in the open\nwater, while his cringing form was tucked away half hidden by the reeds.\nWhat an age it seemed!  How each reed shaken by the river breeze caught\nthe eye, giving me goose-flesh and sending waves of cold shudders\ncreeping over me!  How the cold smooth touch of a reed stem against my\nleg made me want to jump and to get out with one huge plunge as the\nhorses had done!  And even when I had passed the struggling yowling\nSnarley up, the few remaining seconds seemed painfully long.  Hall had\nto lie flat and reach his furthest to grip my hand; and I nearly pulled\nhim in, scrambling up that bank like a chased cat up a tree.\n\nWhen one comes to think it out, the bank must have been nine feet high.\nIt was mighty unpleasant; but it taught us what a horse can do when he\nputs, his back into it!\n\n\nCHAPTER NINETEEN.\n\nJOCK'S MISTAKE.\n\nHalf-way between the Crocodile and Komati Rivers, a few miles south of\nthe old road, there are half a dozen or more small kopjes between which\nlie broad richly grassed depressions, too wide and flat to be; called\nvalleys.  The fall of the country is slight, yet the rich loamy soil has\nbeen washed out in places into dongas of considerable depth.  There is\nno running water there in winter, but there are a few big pools--long\nnarrow irregularly shaped bits of water--with shady trees around them.\nI came upon the place by accident one day, and thereafter we kept it\ndark as our own preserve; for it was full of game, and a most delightful\nspot.  It was there that Snarleyow twice cleaned out the hunter's pot.\n\nApart from the discovery of this preserve, the day was memorable for the\nreason that it was my first experience of a big mixed herd; and I\nlearned that day how difficult the work may be when several kinds of\ngame run together.  After a dry and warm morning the sight of the big\npool had prompted an off-saddle; Snowball was tethered in a patch of\ngood grass, and Jock and I were lying in the shade.\n\nWhen he began to sniff and walk up wind I took the rifle and followed,\nand only a little way off we came into dry vlei ground where there were\nfew trees and the grass stood about waist high.  Some two hundred yards\naway where the ground rose slightly and the bush became thicker there\nwas a fair-sized troop of impala, perhaps a hundred or more, and just\nbehind, and mostly to one side of them, were between twenty and thirty\ntsessebe.  We saw them clearly and in time to avoid exposing ourselves:\nthey were neither feeding nor resting, but simply standing about, and\nindividual animals were moving unconcernedly from time to time with an\nair of idle loitering.  I tried to pick out a good tsessebe ram, but the\nimpala were in the way, and it was necessary to crawl for some distance\nto reach certain cover away on the right.\n\nCrawling is hard work and very rough on both hands and knees in the\nBushveld, frequent rests being necessary; and in one of the pauses I\nheard a curious sound of soft padded feet jumping behind me, and looking\nquickly about caught Jock in the act of taking his observations.  The\ngrass was too high for him to see over, even when he stood up on his\nhind legs, and he was giving jumps of slowly increasing strength to get\nthe height which would enable him to see what was on.  I shall never\nforget that first view of Jock's ballooning observations; it became a\nregular practice afterwards and I grew accustomed to seeing him stand on\nhis hind legs or jump when his view was shut out--indeed sometimes when\nwe were having a slow time I used to draw him by pretending to stalk\nsomething; but it is that first view that remains a picture of him.  I\nturned at the instant when he was at the top of his jump; his legs were\nall bunched up, his eyes staring eagerly and his ears had flapped out,\ngiving him a look of comic astonishment.  It was a most surprisingly\nunreal sight: he looked like a caricature of Jock shot into the air by a\ngalvanic shock.  A sign with my hand brought him flat on the ground,\nlooking distinctly guilty, and we moved along again; but I was shaking\nwith silent laughter.\n\nAt the next stop I had a look back to see how he was behaving, and to my\nsurprise, although he was following carefully close behind me, he was\nlooking steadily away to our immediate right.  I subsided gently on to\nmy left side to see what it was that interested him, and to my delight\nsaw a troop of twenty to twenty-five Blue Wildebeeste.  They, too, were\n`standing any way,' and evidently had not seen us.\n\nI worked myself cautiously round to face them so as to be able to pick\nmy shot and take it kneeling, thus clearing the tops of the grass; but\nwhilst doing this another surprising development took place.  Looking\nhard and carefully at the wildebeeste two hundred yards away, I became\nconscious of something else in between us, and only half the distance\noff, looking at me.  It had the effect of a shock; the disagreeable\neffect produced by having a book or picture suddenly thrust close to the\nface; the feeling of wanting to get further away from it to re-focus\none's sight.\n\nWhat I saw was simply a dozen quagga, all exactly alike, all standing\nalike, all looking at me, all full face to me, their fore feet together,\ntheir ears cocked, and their heads quite motionless--all gazing steadily\nat me, alive with interest and curiosity.  There was something quite\nludicrous in it, and something perplexing also: when I looked at the\nquagga the wildebeeste seemed to get out of focus and were lost to me;\nwhen I looked at the wildebeeste the quagga `blurred' and faded out of\nsight.  The difference in distance, perhaps as much as the very marked\ndifference in the distinctive colourings, threw me out; and the effect\nof being watched also told.  Of course I wanted to get a wildebeeste,\nbut I was conscious of the watching quagga all the time, and, for the\nlife of me, could not help constantly looking at them to see if they\nwere going to start off and stampede the others.\n\nWhilst trying to pick out the best of the wildebeeste a movement away on\nthe left made me look that way: the impala jumped off like one animal,\nscaring the tsessebe into a scattering rout; the quagga switched round\nand thundered off like a stampede of horses; and the wildebeeste simply\nvanished.  One signal in one troop had sent the whole lot off.  Jock and\nI were left alone, still crouching, looking from side to side, staring\nat the slowly drifting dust, and listening to the distant dying sound of\ngalloping feet.\n\nIt was a great disappointment, but the conviction that we had found a\nreally good spot made some amends, and Snowball was left undisturbed to\nfeed and rest for another two hours.  We made for the waggons along\nanother route taking in some of the newly discovered country in the home\nsweep, and the promise of the morning was fulfilled.  We had not been\nmore than a few minutes on the way when a fine rietbuck ram jumped up\nwithin a dozen yards of Snowball's nose.  Old Rocky had taught me to\nimitate the rietbuck's shrill whistle and this one fell to the first\nshot.  He was a fine big fellow, and as Snowball put on airs and\npretended to be nervous when it came to packing the meat, I had to\nblindfold him, and after hoisting the buck up to a horizontal branch\nlowered it on to his back.\n\nSnowball was villainously slow and bad to lead.  He knew that whilst\nbeing led neither whip nor spur could touch him, and when loaded up with\nmeat he dragged along at a miserable walk: one had to haul him.  Once--\nbut only once--I had tried driving him before me, trusting to about 400\npounds weight of koodoo meat to keep him steady; but no sooner had I\nstepped behind with a switch than he went off with a cumbrous plunge and\nbucked like a frantic mule until he rid himself of his load, saddle and\nall.  The fact is one person could not manage him on foot, it needed one\nat each end of him, and he knew it: thus it worked out at a compromise:\nhe carried my load, and I went his pace!\n\nWe were labouring along in this fashion when we came on the wildebeeste\nagain.  A white man on foot seems to be recognised as an enemy; but if\naccompanied by animals, either on horseback, driving in a vehicle,\nleading a horse, or walking among cattle, he may pass unnoticed for a\nlong while: attention seems to be fixed on the animals rather than the\nman, and frank curiosity instead of alarm is quite evidently the feeling\naroused.\n\nThe wildebeeste had allowed me to get close up, and I picked out the big\nbull and took the shot kneeling, with my toe hooked in the reins to\nsecure Snowball, taking chance of being jerked off my aim rather than\nlet him go; but he behaved like an angel, and once more that day a\nsingle shot was enough.\n\nIt was a long and tedious job skinning the big fellow, cutting him up,\nhauling the heavy limbs and the rest of the meat up into a suitable\ntree, and making all safe against the robbers of the earth and the air;\nand most troublesome of all was packing the head and skin on Snowball,\nwho showed the profoundest mistrust of this dark ferocious-looking\nmonster.\n\nSnowball and I had had enough of it when we reached camp, well after\ndark; but Jock I am not so sure of: his invincible keenness seemed at\ntimes to have something in it of mute reproach--the tinge of\ndisappointment in those they love which great hearts feel, and strive to\nhide!  I never outstayed Jock, and never once knew him `own up' that he\nhad had enough.\n\nNo two days were quite alike; yet many were alike in the sense that they\nwere successful without hitch and without interest to any but the\nhunters; many others were marked by chases in which Jock's part--most\nessential to success--too closely resembled that of other days to be\nworth repeating.  On that day he had, as usual, been the one to see the\nwildebeeste and had `given the word' in time; the rest was only one\nstraight shot.  That was fair partnership in which both were happy; but\nthere was nothing to talk about.\n\nThere was very little wanton shooting with us, for when we had more\nfresh meat than was required, as often happened, it was dried as\n`bultong' for the days of shortage which were sure to come.\n\nI started off early next morning with the boys to bring in the meat, and\nwent on foot, giving Snowball a rest, more or less deserved.  By nine\no'clock the boys were on their way back, and leaving them to take the\ndirect route I struck away eastwards along the line of the pools, not\nexpecting much and least of all dreaming that fate had one of the worst\ndays in store for us: \"From cloudless heavens her lightnings glance\" did\nnot occur to my mind as we moved silently along in the bright sunshine.\n\nWe passed the second pool, loitering a few minutes in the cool shade of\nthe evergreens to watch the green pigeons feeding on the wild figs and\npeering down curiously at us; then moved briskly into more open ground.\nIt is not wise to step too suddenly out of the dark shade into strong\nglare, and it may have been that act of carelessness that enabled the\nkoodoo to get off before I saw them.  They cantered away in a string\nwith the cows in the rear, between me and two full-grown bulls.  It was\na running shot--end on--and the last of the troop, a big cow, gave a\nstumble; but catching herself up again she cantered off slowly.  Her\nbody was all bunched up and she was pitching greatly, and her hind legs\nkept flying out in irregular kicks, much as you may see a horse kick out\nwhen a blind fly is biting him.\n\nThere was no time for a second shot and we started off in hot pursuit;\nand fifty yards further on where there was a clear view I saw that the\nkoodoo was going no faster than an easy canter, and Jock was close\nbehind.\n\nWhether he was misled by the curious action, and believed there was a\nbroken leg to grip, or was simply over bold, it is impossible to know.\nWhatever the reason, he jumped for one of the hind legs, and at the same\nmoment the koodoo lashed out viciously.  One foot struck him under the\njaw close to the throat, `whipped' his head and neck back like a bent\nswitch, and hurled him somersaulting backwards.\n\nI have the impression--as one sees oneself in a nightmare--of a person\nthrowing up his arms and calling the name of his child as a train passed\nover it.\n\nJock lay limp and motionless, with the blood oozing from mouth, nose,\nand eyes.  I recollect feeling for his heart-beat and breath, and\nshaking him roughly and calling him by name; then, remembering the pool\nnear by, I left him in the shade of a tree, filled my hat with water,\nran back again and poured it over him and into his mouth, shaking him\nagain to rouse him, and several times pressing his sides--bellows\nfashion--in a ridiculous effort to restore breathing.\n\nThe old hat was leaky and I had to grip the rough-cut ventilations to\nmake it hold any water at all, and I was returning with a second supply\nwhen with a great big heart-jump, I saw Jock heel over from his side and\nwith his fore legs flat on the ground raise himself to a resting\nposition, his head wagging groggily and his eyes blinking in a very\ndazed way.\n\nHe took no notice when I called his name, but at the touch of my hand\nhis ears moved up and the stumpy tail scraped feebly in the dead leaves.\nHe was stone deaf; but I did not know it then.  He lapped a little of\nthe water, sneezed the blood away and licked his chops; and then, with\nevident effort, stood up.\n\nBut this is the picture which it is impossible to forget.  The dog was\nstill so dazed and shaken that he reeled slightly, steadying himself by\nspreading his legs well apart, and there followed a few seconds' pause\nin which he stood thus; and then he began to walk forward with the\nuncertain staggery walk of a toddling child.  His jaws were set close;\nhis eyes were beady black, and he looked `fight' all over.  He took no\nnotice of me; and I, never dreaming that he was after the koodoo,\nwatched the walk quicken to a laboured trot before I moved or called;\nbut he paid no heed to the call.  For the first time in his life there\nwas rank open defiance of orders, and he trotted slowly along with his\nnose to the ground.  Then I understood; and, thinking he was maddened by\nthe kick and not quite responsible for himself, and--more than that--\nadmiring his pluck far too much to be angry, I ran to bring him back;\nbut at a turn in his course he saw me coming, and this time he obeyed\nthe call and signal instantly, and with a limp air of disappointment\nfollowed quietly back to the tree.\n\nThe reason for Jock's persistent disobedience that day was not even\nsuspected then; I put everything down to the kick; and he seemed to me\nto be `all wrong,' but indeed there was excuse enough for him.\nNevertheless it was puzzling that at times he should ignore me in\npositively contemptuous fashion, and at others obey with all his old\nreadiness: I neither knew he was deaf, nor realised that the habit of\nusing certain signs and gestures when I spoke to him--and even of using\nthem in place of orders when silence was imperative--had made him almost\nindependent of the word of mouth.  From that day he depended wholly upon\nsigns; for he never heard another sound.\n\nJock came back with me and lay down; but he was not content.  Presently\nhe rose again and remained standing with his back to me, looking\nsteadily in the direction taken by the koodoo.  It was fine to see the\nindomitable spirit, but I did not mean to let him try again; the koodoo\nwas as good as dead no doubt, yet a hundred koodoo would not have\ntempted me to risk taking him out: to rest him and get him back to the\ncamp was the only thought.  I was feeling very soft about the dog then.\nAnd while I sat thus watching him and waiting for him to rest and\nrecover, once more and almost within reach of me he started off again.\nBut it was not as he had done before: this time he went with a spring\nand a rush, and with head lowered and meaning business.  In vain I\ncalled and followed: he outpaced me and left me in a few strides.\n\nThe koodoo had gone along the right bank of the donga which, commencing\njust below the pool, extended half a mile or more down the flat valley.\nJock's rush was magnificent, but it was puzzling, and his direction was\neven more so; for he made straight for the donga.\n\nI ran back for the rifle and followed, and he had already disappeared\ndown the steep bank of the donga when, through the trees on the opposite\nside, I saw a koodoo cow moving along at a slow cramped walk.  The donga\nwas a deep one with perpendicular sides, and in places even overhanging\ncrumbling banks, and I reached it as Jock, slipping and struggling,\nworked his way up the other wall writhing and climbing through the tree\nroots exposed by the floods.  As he rushed out the koodoo saw him and\nturned; there was just a chance--a second of time: a foot of space--\nbefore he got in the line of fire; and I took it.  One hind leg gave\nway, and in the short sidelong stagger that followed Jock jumped at the\nkoodoo's throat and they went down together.\n\nIt took me several minutes to get through the donga, and by that time\nthe koodoo was dead and Jock was standing, wide-mouthed and panting, on\nguard at its head: the second shot had been enough.\n\nIt was an unexpected and puzzling end; and, in a way, not a welcome one,\nas it meant delay in getting back.  After the morning's experience there\nwas not much inclination for the skinning and cutting up of a big animal\nand I set to work gathering branches and grass to hide the carcase,\nmeaning to send the boys back for it.\n\nBut the day's experiences were not over yet: a low growl from Jock made\nme look sharply round, to see half a dozen kaffirs coming through the\nbush with a string of mongrel hounds at their heels.\n\nSo that was the explanation of the koodoo's return to us!  The natives,\na hunting party, had heard the shot and coming along in hopes of meat\nhad met and headed off the wounded koodoo, turning her back almost on\nher own tracks.  There was satisfaction in having the puzzle solved, but\nthe more practical point was that here was all the help I wanted; and\nthe boys readily agreed to skin the animal and carry the four quarters\nto the camp for the gift of the rest.\n\nThen my trouble began with Jock.  He flew at the first of the kaffir\ndogs that sneaked up to sniff at the koodoo.  Shouting at him produced\nno effect whatever, and before I could get hold of him he had mauled the\nanimal pretty badly.  After hauling him off I sat down in the shade,\nwith him beside me; but there were many dogs, and a succession of\naffairs, and I, knowing nothing of his deafness, became thoroughly\nexasperated and surprised by poor old Jock's behaviour.\n\nHis instinct to defend our kills, which was always strong, was roused\nthat day beyond control, and his hatred of kaffir dogs--an implacable\none in any case--made a perfect fury of him; still, the sickening awful\nfeeling that came over me as he lay limp and lifeless was too fresh, and\nit was not possible to be really angry; and after half a dozen of the\ndogs had been badly handled there was something so comical in the way\nthey sheered off and eyed Jock that I could only laugh.  They sneaked\nbehind bushes and tried to circumvent him in all sorts of ways, but fled\nprecipitately as soon as he moved a step or lowered his head and humped\nhis shoulders threateningly.  Even the kaffir owners, who had begun to\nlook glum, broke into appreciative laughter and shouts of admiration for\nthe white man's dog.\n\nJock kept up an unbroken string of growls, not loud, of course, but I\ncould feel them going all the while like a volcano's rumbling as my\nrestraining hand rested on him, and when the boys came up to skin the\nkoodoo I had to hold him down and shake him sharply.  The dog was mad\nwith fight; he bristled all over; and no patting or talking produced\nmore than a flicker of his ears.  The growling went on; the hair stood\nup; the tail was quite unresponsive; his jaws were set like a vice; and\nhis eyes shone like two black diamonds.  He had actually struggled to\nget free of my hand when the boys began to skin, and they were so scared\nby his resolute attempt that they would not start until I put him down\nbetween my knees and held him.\n\nI was sitting against a tree only three or four yards from the koodoo,\nand the boys, who had lighted a fire in anticipation of early tit-bits\nwhich would grill while they worked, were getting along well with the\nskinning, when one of them saw fit to pause in order to hold forth in\nthe native fashion on the glories of the chase and the might of the\nwhite man.  Jock's head lay on his paws and his mouth was shut like a\nrat-trap; his growling grew louder as the bombastic nigger, all\nunconscious of the wicked watching eyes behind him, waved his\nblood-stained knife and warmed to his theme.\n\n\"Great you thought yourself,\" proclaimed the orator, addressing the dead\nkoodoo in a long rigmarole which was only partly understood by me but\nevidently much approved by the other boys as they stooped to their work,\n\"Swift of foot and strong of limb.  But the white man came, and--there!\"\nI could not make out the words with any certainty; but whatever the\nlast word was, it was intended as a dramatic climax, and to lend\nadditional force to his point the orator let fly a resounding kick on\nthe koodoo's stomach.\n\nThe effect was quite electrical!  Like an arrow from the bow Jock flew\nat him!  The warning shout came too late, and as Jock's teeth fastened\nin him behind the terrified boy gave a wild bound over the koodoo,\ncarrying Jock like a streaming coat-tail behind him.\n\nThe work was stopped and the natives drew off in grave consultation.  I\nthought that they had had enough of Jock for one day and that they would\nstrike work and leave me, probably returning later on to steal the meat\nwhile I went for help from the waggons.  But it turned out that the\nconsultation was purely medical, and in a few minutes I had an\ninteresting exhibition of native doctoring.  They laid the late orator\nout face downwards, and one burly `brother' straddled him across the\nsmall of the back; then after a little preliminary examination of the\nfour slits left by Jock's fangs, he proceeded to cauterise them with the\nglowing ends of sundry sticks which an assistant took from the fire and\nhanded to him as required.  The victim flapped his hands on the ground\nand hallooed out \"My babo!  My babo!\" but he did not struggle; and the\noperator toasted away with methodical indifference.\n\nThe orator stood it well!\n\nI took Jock away to the big tree near the pool: it was evident that he,\ntoo, had had enough of it for one day.\n\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY.\n\nJANTJE.\n\nThere was no hunting for several days after the affair with the koodoo\ncow.  Jock looked worse the following day than he had done since\nrecovering consciousness: his head and neck swelled up so that chewing\nwas impossible and he could only lap a little soup or milk, and could\nhardly bend his neck at all.\n\nOn the morning of the second day Jim Makokel' came up with his\nhostile-looking swagger and a cross worried look on his face, and in a\nhalf-angry and wholly disgusted tone jerked out at me, \"The dog is deaf.\nI say so!  Me!  Makokela!  Jock is deaf.  He does not hear when you\nspeak.  Deaf! yes, deaf!\"\n\nJim's tone grew fiercer as he warmed up; he seemed to hold me\nresponsible.  The moment the boy spoke I knew it was true--it was the\nonly possible explanation of many little things; nevertheless I jumped\nup hurriedly to try him in a dozen ways, hoping to find that he could\nhear something.  Jim was right; he was really stone deaf.  It was\npathetic to find how each little subterfuge that drew his eyes from me\nleft him out of reach: it seemed as if a link had broken between us and\nI had lost my hold.  That was wrong, however!  In a few days he began to\nrealise the loss of hearing; and after that, feeling so much greater\ndependence on sight, his watchfulness increased so that nothing escaped\nhim.  None of those who saw him in that year, when he was at his very\nbest, could bring themselves to believe that he was deaf.  With me it\nmade differences both ways: something lost, and something gained.  If he\ncould hear nothing, he saw more; the language of signs developed; and\ntaking it all round I believe the sense of mutual dependence for success\nand of mutual understanding was greater than ever.\n\nSnowball went on to the retired list at the end of the next trip.\n\nJoey the Smith stood at the forge one day, trimming a red-hot\nhorse-shoe, when I rode up and dropping the reins over Snowball's head,\nsang out \"Morning, Joey!\"\n\nJoey placed the chisel on the shoe with nice calculation of the amount\nhe wanted to snip off; his assistant boy swung the big hammer, and an\ninch cube of red-hot iron dropped off.  Then Joey looked up with, what\nseemed to me, a conflict of innocent surprise and stifled amusement in\nhis face.  The boy also turned to look, and--the insignificant incident\nis curiously unforgettable--trod upon the piece of hot iron.  \"Look\nwhere you're standing,\" said Joey reproachfully, as the smoke and smell\nof burning skin-welt rose up; and the boy with a grunt of disgust, such\nas we might give at a burned boot, looked to see what damage had been\ndone to his `unders.'  It gave me an even better idea of a nigger's feet\nthan those thorn digging operations when we had to cut through a solid\nwhitish welt a third of an inch thick.\n\nJoey grinned openly at the boy; but he was thinking of Snowball.\n\n\"I wonder you had the heart, Joey, I do indeed!\"  I said, shaking my\nhead at him.\n\n\"You would have him, lad, there was no refusin' you!  You arst so nice\nand wanted him so bad!\"\n\n\"But how could you bear to part with him, Joey?  It must have been like\nselling one of the family.\"\n\n\"'Es, Boy, 'es!  We are a bit stoopid--our lot!  Is he still such a\nfool, or has he improved any with you?\"\n\n\"Joey, I've learned him--full up to the teeth.  If he stops longer he\nwill become wicked, like me; and you would not be the ruin of an\ninnocent young thing trying to earn a living honestly, if he can?\"\n\n\"Come round behind the shop, Boy.  I got a pony'll suit you proper!\"  He\ngave a hearty laugh, and added \"You can always get what you arsk for--if\nit ain't worth having.  Moril!  Don't arsk!  I never offered you\nSnowball.  This one's different.  You can have him at cost price; and\nthat's an old twelve month account!  Ten pounds.  He's worth four of it!\nSalted _an'_ shootin'!  Shake!\" and I gripped his grimy old fist\ngladly, knowing it was jonnick and `a square deal.'\n\nThat was Mungo Park--the long, strong, low-built, half-bred Basuto\npony--well-trained and without guile.\n\nI left Snowball with his previous owner, to use as required, and never\ncalled back for him; and if this should meet the eye of Joey the Smith\nhe will know that I no longer hope his future life will be spent in\nstalking a wart-eyed white horse in a phantom Bushveld.  Mungo made\namends.\n\nThere was a spot between the Komati and Crocodile rivers on the north\nside of the road where the white man seldom passed and nature was\nundisturbed; few knew of water there; it was too well concealed between\ndeep banks and the dense growth of thorns and large trees.\n\nThe spot always had great attractions for me apart from the big game to\nbe found there.  I used to steal along the banks of this lone water and\nwatch the smaller life of the bush.  It was a delightful field for\nnaturalist and artist, but unfortunately we thought little of such\nthings, and knew even less; and now nothing is left from all the\nglorious opportunities but the memory of an endless fascination and a\nfew facts that touch the human chord and will not submit to be\nforgotten.\n\nThere were plenty of birds--guinea-fowl, pheasant, partridge, knoorhaan\nand bush pauw.  Jock accompanied me of course when I took the\nfowling-piece, but merely for companionship; for there was no need for\nhim on these occasions.  I shot birds to get a change of food and\ntrusted to walking them up along the river banks and near drinking\npools; but one evening Jock came forward of his own accord to help me--a\nsort of amused volunteer; and after that I always used him.\n\nHe had been at my heels, apparently taking little interest in the\nproceedings from the moment the first bird fell and he saw what the game\nwas; probably he was intelligently interested all the time but\nconsidered it nothing to get excited about.  After a time I saw him turn\naside from the line we had been taking and stroll off at a walking pace,\nsniffing softly the while.  When he had gone a dozen yards he stopped\nand looked back at me; then he looked in front again with his head\nslightly on one side, much as he would have done examining a beetle\nrolling his ball.\n\nThere were no signs of anything, yet the grass was short for those\nparts, scarce a foot high, and close, soft and curly.  A brace of\npartridges rose a few feet from Jock, and he stood at ease calmly\nwatching them, without a sign or move to indicate more than amused\ninterest.  The birds were absurdly tame and sailed so quietly along that\nI hesitated at first to shoot; then the noise of the two shots put up\nthe largest number of partridges I have ever seen in one lot, and a line\nof birds rose for perhaps sixty yards across our front.  There was no\nwild whirr and confusion: they rose in leisurely fashion as if told to\nmove on, sailing infinitely slowly down the slope to the thorns near the\ndonga.  Running my eye along the line I counted them in twos up to\nbetween thirty and forty; and that I could not have been more than half.\nHow many coveys had packed there, and for what purpose, and whether\nthey came every evening, were questions which one would like answered\nnow; but they were not of sufficient interest then to encourage a second\nvisit another evening.  The birds sailed quietly into the little wood,\nand many of them alighted on branches of the larger trees.  It is the\nonly time I have seen a partridge in a tree; but when one comes to think\nit out, it seems commonsense that, in a country teeming with vermin and\nnight-prowlers, all birds should sleep off the ground.  Perhaps they do!\n\nThere were numbers of little squirrel-like creatures there too.  Our\nfellows used to call them ground-squirrels and \"tree-rats\"; because they\nlive underground, yet climb trees readily in search of food; they were\nlittle fellows like meerkats, with bushy tails ringed in brown, black\nand white, of which the waggon-boys made decorations for their slouch\nhats.\n\nJock wanted a go at them: they did not appear quite so much beneath\nnotice as the birds.\n\nAlong the water's edge one came on the lagavaans, huge repulsive\nwater-lizards three to four feet long, like crocodiles in miniature,\nsunning themselves in some favourite spot in the margin of the reeds or\non the edge of the bank; they give one the jumps by the suddenness of\ntheir rush through the reeds and plunge into deep water.\n\nThere were otters too, big black-brown fierce fellows, to be seen\nswimming silently close under the banks.  I got a couple of them, but\nwas always nervous of letting Jock into the water after things, as one\nnever knew where the crocodile lurked.  He got an ugly bite from one old\ndog-otter which I shot in shallow water; and, mortally wounded as he\nwas, the otter put up a rare good fight before Jock finally hauled him\nout.\n\nThen there were the cane-rats, considered by some most excellent and\ndelicate of meats, as big and tender as small sucking-pigs.  The\ncane-rat, living and dead, I was one of the stock surprises, and the\nsubject of jokes and tricks upon the unsuspecting: there seems to be no\nsort of ground for associating the extraordinary fat thing, gliding\namong the reeds or swimming silently under the banks, with either its\nlive capacity of rat or its more attractive dead _role_ of roast\nsucking-pig.\n\nThe hardened ones enjoyed setting this treat before the hungry and\nunsuspecting, and, after a hearty meal, announcing--\"That was roast rat:\ngood, isn't it?\"  The memory of one experience gives me water in the\ngills now!  It was unpleasant, but not equal to the nausea and upheaval\nwhich supervened when, after a very savoury stew of delicate white meat,\nwe were shown the fresh skin of a monkey hanging from the end of the\nbuck-rails, with the head drooping forward, eyes closed, arms dangling\nlifeless, and limp open hands--a ghastly caricature of some hanged\nhuman, shrivelled and shrunk within its clothes of skin.  I felt like a\ncannibal.\n\nThe water tortoises in the silent pools, grotesque muddy fellows, were\nfull of interest to the quiet watcher, and better that way than as the\n\"turtle soup\" which once or twice we ventured on and tried to think was\ngood!\n\nThere were certain hours of the day when it was more pleasant and\nprofitable to lie in the shade and rest.  It is the time of rest for the\nBushveld--that spell about middle-day; and yet if one remains quiet,\nthere is generally something to see and something worth watching.  There\nwere the insects on the ground about one which would not otherwise be\nseen at all; there were caterpillars clad in spiky armour made of tiny\nfragments of grass--fair defence no doubt against some enemies and a\nmost marvellous disguise; other caterpillars clad in bark, impossible to\ndetect until they moved; there were grasshoppers like leaves, and\nirregularly shaped stick insects, with legs as bulky as the body, and\nall jointed by knots like irregular twigs--wonderful mimetic creatures.\n\nJock often found these things for me.  Something would move and interest\nhim; and when I saw him stand up and examine a thing at his feet,\nturning it over with his nose or giving it a scrape with his paw, it was\nusually worth joining in the inspection.  The Hottentot-gods always\nattracted him as they reared up and `prayed' before him; quaint things,\nwith tiny heads and thin necks and enormous eyes, that sat up with fore\nlegs raised to pray, as a pet dog sits up and begs.\n\nOne day I was watching the ants as they travelled along their route--\nsometimes stopping to hobnob with those they met, sometimes hurrying\npast, and sometimes turning as though sent back on a message or reminded\nof something forgotten--when a little dry brown bean lying in a spot of\nsunlight gave a jump of an inch or two.  At first it seemed that I must\nhave unknowingly moved some twig or grass stem that flicked it; but as I\nwatched it there was another vigorous jump.  I took it up and examined\nit but there was nothing unusual about it, it was just a common light\nbrown bean with no peculiarities or marks; it was a real puzzle, a most\nsurprising and ridiculous one.  I found half a dozen more in the same\nplace; but it was some days before we discovered the secret.  Domiciled\nin each of them was a very small but very energetic worm, with a\ntrap-door or stopper on his one end, so artfully contrived that it was\nalmost impossible with the naked eye to locate the spot where the hole\nwas.  The worm objected to too much heat and if the beans were placed in\nthe sun or near the fire the weird astonishing jumping would commence.\n\nThe beans were good for jumping for several months, and once in Delagoa,\none of our party put some on a plate in the sun beside a fellow who had\nbeen doing himself too well for some time previously: he had become a\nperfect nuisance to us and we could not get rid of him.  He had a mouth\nfull of bread, and a mug of coffee on the way to help it down, when the\nfirst bean jumped.  He gave a sort of peck, blinked several times to\nclear his eyes, and then with his left hand pulled slightly at his\ncollar, as though to ease it.  Then came another jump, and his mouth\nopened slowly and his eyes got big.  The plate being hollow and glazed\nwas not a fair field for the jumpers--they could not escape; and in\nabout half a minute eight or ten beans were having a rough and tumble.\n\nWith a white scared face our guest slowly lowered his mug, screened his\neyes with the other hand, and after fighting down the mouthful of bread,\ngot up and walked off without a word.\n\nWe tried to smother our laughter, but some one's choking made him look\nback and he saw the whole lot of us in various stages of convulsions.\nHe made one rude remark, and went on; but every one he met that day made\nsome allusion to beans, and he took the Durban steamer next morning.\n\nThe insect life was prodigious in its numbers and variety; and the\nbirds, the beasts, and the reptiles were all interesting.  There is a\ngoodness-knows-what-will-turn-up-next atmosphere about the Bushveld\nwhich is, I fancy, unique.  The story of the curate, armed with a\nbutterfly net, coming face to face with a black-maned lion may or may\nnot be true--in fact; but it is true enough as an illustration; and it\nis no more absurd or unlikely than the meeting at five yards of a\nlioness and a fever-stricken lad carrying a white green-lined umbrella--\nwhich is true!  The boy stood and looked: the lioness did the same.\n\"She seemed to think I was not worth eating, so she walked off,\" he used\nto say--and he was Trooper 242 of the Imperial Light Horse who went back\nunder fire for wounded comrades and was killed as he brought the last\none out.\n\nI had an old cross-bred Hottentot-Bushman boy once--one could not tell\nwhich lot he favoured--who was full of the folklore stories and\nsuperstitions of his strange and dying race, which he half humorously\nand half seriously blended with his own knowledge and hunting\nexperiences.  Jantje had the ugly wrinkled dry-leather face of his\nbreed, with hollow cheeks, high cheek-bones, and little pinched eyes, so\nsmall and so deeply set that no one ever saw the colour of them; the\npepper-corns of tight wiry wool that did duty for hair were sparsely\nscattered over his head like the stunted bushes in the desert; and his\nface and head were seamed with scars too numerous to count, the\nsouvenirs of his drunken brawls.  He resembled a tame monkey rather than\na human creature, being, like so many of his kind without the moral side\nor qualities of human nature which go to mark the distinction between\nman and monkey.  He was normally most cheery and obliging; but it meant\nnothing, for in a moment the monkey would peep out, vicious, treacherous\nand unrestrained.  Honesty, sobriety, gratitude, truth, fidelity, and\nhumanity were impossible to him: it seemed as if even the germs were not\nthere to cultivate, and the material with which to work did not exist.\nHe had certain make-believe substitutes, which had in a sense been\ngrafted on to his nature, and appeared to work, while there was no real\nuse for them; they made a show, until they were tested; one took them\nfor granted, as long as they were not disproved: it was a skin graft\nonly, and there seemed to be no real `union' possible between them and\nthe tough alien stock.  He differed in character and nature from the\nZulu as much as he did from the white man; he was as void of principle\nas--well, as his next of kin, the monkey; yet, while without either\nshame of, or contempt for, cowardice; he was wholly without fear of\nphysical danger, having a sort of fatalist's indifference to it; and\nthat was something to set off against his moral deficit.  I put Jantje\non to wash clothes the day he turned up at the waggons to look for work,\nand as he knelt on the rocks stripped to the waist I noticed a very\ncurious knotted line running up his right side from the lowest rib into\nthe armpit.  The line was whiter than his yellow skin; over each rib\nthere was a knot or widening in the line; and under the arm there was a\nbig splotchy star--all markings of some curious wound.\n\nHe laughed almost hysterically, his eyes disappearing altogether and\nevery tooth showing, as I lifted his arm to investigate; and then in\nhigh-pitched falsetto tones he shouted in a sort of ecstasy of delight,\n\"Die ouw buffels, Baas!  Die buffels bull, Baas!\"\n\n\"Buffalo!  Did he toss you?\"  I asked.  Jantje seemed to think it the\nbest joke in the world and with constant squeals of laughter and graphic\ngestures gabbled off his account.\n\nHis master, it appears, had shot at and slightly wounded the buffalo,\nand Jantje had been placed at one exit from the bush to prevent the herd\nfrom breaking away.  As they came towards him he fired at the foremost\none; but before he could reload the wounded bull made for him and he ran\nfor dear life to the only tree near--one of the flat-topped thorns.  He\nheard the thundering hoofs and the snorting breath behind, but raced on\nhoping to reach the tree and dodge behind it; a few yards short,\nhowever, the bull caught him, in spite of a jump aside, and flung him\nwith one toss right on top of the thorn-tree.\n\nWhen he recovered consciousness he was lying face upwards in the sun,\nwith nothing to rest his head on and only sticks and thorns around him.\nHe did not know where he was or what had happened; he tried to move, but\none arm was useless and the effort made him slip and sag, and he thought\nhe was falling through the earth.  Presently he heard regular tramping\nunderneath him and the breath of a big animal: and the whole incident\ncame back to him.  By feeling about cautiously he at last located the\nbiggest branch under him, and getting a grip on this he managed to turn\nover and ease his right side.  He could then see the buffalo: it had\ntramped a circle round the tree and was doing sentry over him.  Now and\nagain the huge creature stopped to sniff, snort and stamp, and then\nresumed the round, perhaps the reverse way.  The buffalo could not see\nhim and never once looked up, but glared about at its own accustomed\nlevel; and, relying entirely on its sense of smell, it kept up the\nrelentless vengeful watch for hours, always stopping in the same place,\nto leeward, to satisfy itself that the enemy had not escaped.\n\nLate in the afternoon the buffalo, for the first time, suddenly came to\na stand on the windward side of the tree, and after a good minute's\nsilence turned its tail on Jantje and with angry sniffs and tosses\nstepped swiftly and resolutely forward some paces.  There was nothing to\nbe seen; but Jantje judged the position and yelled out a warning to his\nmaster whom he guessed to be coming through the bush to look for him,\nand at the same time he made what noise he could in the tree top to make\nthe buffalo think he was coming down.  The animal looked round from time\nto time with swings and tosses of the head and threatening angry\nsneezes, much as one sees a cow do when standing between her young calf\nand threatened danger: it was defending Jantje, for his own purposes,\nand facing the danger.\n\nFor many minutes there was dead silence: no answer came to Jantje's\ncall, and the bull stood its ground glaring and sniffing towards the\nbush.  At last there was a heavy thud below, instantly followed by the\nreport of the rifle--the bullet came faster than the sound; the buffalo\ngave a heavy plunge and with a grunting sob slid forward on its chest.\n\nRound the camp fire at night Jantje used to tell tales in which fact,\nfancy, and superstition were curiously mingled; and Jantje when not out\nof humour was free with his stories.  The boys, for whose benefit they\nwere told, listened open-mouthed; and I often stood outside the ring of\ngaping boys at their fire, an interested listener.\n\nThe tale of his experiences with the honey-bird which he had cheated of\nits share was the first I heard him tell.  Who could say how much was\nfact, how much fancy, and how much the superstitions of his race?  Not\neven Jantje knew that!  He believed it all.\n\nThe Honey-bird met him one day with cheery cheep-cheep, and as he\nwhistled in reply it led him to an old tree where the beehive was: it\nwas a small hive, and Jantje was hungry; so he ate it all.  All the time\nhe was eating, the bird kept fluttering about, calling anxiously, and\nexpecting some honey or fat young bees to be thrown out for it; and when\nhe had finished, the bird came down and searched in vain for its share.\nAs he walked away the guilty Jantje noticed that the indignant bird\nfollowed him with angry cries and threats.\n\nAll day long he failed to find game; whenever there seemed to be a\nchance an angry honey-bird would appear ahead of him and cry a warning\nto the game; and that night as he came back, empty-handed and hungry,\nall the portents of bad luck came to him in turn.  An owl screeched\nthree times over his head; a goat-sucker with its long wavy wings and\ntail flitted before him in swoops and rings in most ghostly silence--and\nthere is nothing more ghostly than that flappy wavy soundless flitting\nof the goat-sucker; a jackal trotted persistently in front looking back\nat him; and a striped hyena, humpbacked, savage, and solitary, stalked\nby in silence, and glared.\n\nAt night as he lay unable to sleep the bats came and made faces at him;\na night adder rose up before his face and slithered out its forked\ntongue--the two black beady eyes glinting the firelight back; and\nwhichever way he looked there was a honey-bird, silent and angry, yet\nwith a look of satisfaction, as it watched.  So it went all night: no\nsleep for him; no rest!\n\nIn the morning he rose early and taking his gun and chopper set out in\nsearch of hives: he would give all to the honey-bird he had cheated, and\nthus make amends.\n\nHe had not gone far before, to his great delight, there came a welcome\nchattering in answer to his low whistle, and the busy little fellow flew\nup to show himself and promptly led the way, going ahead ten to twenty\nyards at a flight.  Jantje followed eagerly until they came to a small\ndonga with a sandy bottom, and then the honey-bird calling briskly,\nfluttered from tree to tree on either bank, leading him on.\n\nJantje, thinking the hive must be near by, was walking slowly along the\nsandy bed and looking upwards in the trees, when something on the ground\ncaught his eye and he sprang back just as the head of a big puff-adder\nstruck where his bare foot had been a moment before.  With one swing of\nhis chopper he killed it; he took the skin off for an ornament, the\npoison-glands for medicine, and the fangs for charms, and then whistled\nand looked about for the honey-bird; but it had gone.\n\nA little later on, however, he came upon another, and it led him to a\nbig and shady wild fig tree.  The honey-bird flew to the trunk itself\nand cheeped and chattered there, and Jantje put down his gun and looked\nabout for an easy place to climb.  As he peered through the foliage he\nmet a pair of large green eyes looking full into his: on a big limb of\nthe tree lay a tiger, still as death, with its head resting on its paws,\nwatching him with a cat-like eagerness for its prey.  Jantje hooked his\ntoe in the reim sling of his old gun and slowly gathered it up without\nmoving his eyes from the tiger's, and backing away slowly, foot by foot,\nhe got out into the sunshine and made off as fast as he could.\n\nIt was the honey-bird's revenge: he knew it then!\n\nHe sat down on some bare ground to think what next to do; for he knew he\nmust die if he did not find honey and make good a hundred times what he\nhad cheated.\n\nAll day long he kept meeting honey-birds and following them; but he\nwould no longer follow them into the bad places, for he could not tell\nwhether they were new birds or the one he had robbed!  Once he had\nnearly been caught; the bird had perched on an old ant-heap, and Jantje,\nthinking there was a ground hive there, walked boldly forward.  A small\nmisshapen tree grew out of the ant-heap, and one of the twisted branches\ncaught his eye because of the thick ring around it: it was the coil of a\nlong green mamba; and far below that, half hidden by the leaves, hung\nthe snake's head with the neck gathered in half-loop coils ready to\nstrike at him.\n\nAfter that Jantje kept in the open, searching for himself among rocks\nand in all the old dead trees for the tell-tale stains that mark the\nhive's entrance; but he had no luck, and when he reached the river in\nthe early afternoon he was glad of a cool drink and a place to rest.\n\nFor a couple of hours he had seen no honey-birds, and it seemed that at\nlast his pursuer had given him up, for that day at least.  As he sat in\nthe shade of the high bank, however, with the river only a few yards\nfrom his feet he heard again a faint chattering: it came from the\nriver-side beyond a turn in the bank, and it was too far away for the\nbird to have seen Jantje from where it called, so he had no doubt about\nthis being a new bird.  It seemed to him a glorious piece of luck that\nhe should find honey by the aid of a strange bird and be able to take\nhalf of it back to the hive he had emptied the day before and leave it\nthere for the cheated bird.\n\nThere was a beach of pebbles and rocks between the high bank and the\nriver, and as Jantje walked along it on the keen lookout for the bird,\nhe spotted it sitting on a root half-way down the bank some twenty yards\nahead.  Close to where the chattering bird perched there was a break in\nthe pebbly beach, and there shallow water extended up to the\nperpendicular bank.  In the middle of this little stretch of water, and\nconveniently placed as a stepping-stone, there was a black rock, and the\nbare-footed Jantje stepped noiselessly from stone to stone towards lit.\n\nAn alarmed cane-rat, cut off by Jantje from the river, ran along the\nfoot of the bank to avoid him; but when it reached the little patch of\nshallow water it suddenly doubled back in fright and raced under the\nboy's feet into the river.\n\nJantje stopped!  He did not know why; but there seemed to be something\nwrong.  Something had frightened the cane-rat back on to him, and he\nstared hard at the bank and the stretch of beach ahead of him.  Then the\nrock he meant to step on to gave a heave, and a long blackish thing\ncurved towards him; he sprang into the air as high as he could, and the\ncrocodile's tail swept under his feet!\n\nJantje fled back like a buck--the rattle on the stones behind him and\ncrash of reeds putting yards into every bound.\n\nFor four days he stayed in camp waiting for some one to find a hive and\ngive him honey enough to make his peace; and then, for an old snuff-box\nand a little powder, he bought a huge basket full of comb, young and\nold, from a kaffir woman at one of the kraals some miles away, and put\nit all at the foot of the tree he had cleaned out.\n\nThen he had peace.\n\nThe boys believed every word of that story: so, I am sure, did Jantje\nhimself.  The buffalo story was obviously true, and Jantje thought\nnothing of it: the honey-bird story was not, yet he gloried in it; it\ntouched his superstitious nature, and it was impossible for him to tell\nthe truth or to separate fact from fancy and superstition.\n\nHow much of fact there may have been in it I cannot say: honey-birds\ngave me many a wild-goose chase, but when they led to anything at all it\nwas to hives, and not to snakes, tigers and crocodiles.  Perhaps it is\nright to own up that I never cheated a honey-bird!  We pretended to\nlaugh at the superstition, but we left some honey all the same--just for\nluck!  After all, as we used to say, the bird earned its share and\ndeserved encouragement.\n\nRound the camp fire at nights it was no uncommon thing to see some one\njump up and let out with whatever was handiest at some poisonous\nintruder.  There was always plenty of dead wood about and we piled on\nbig branches and logs freely, and as the ends burnt to ashes in the\nheart of the fire we kept pushing the logs further in.  Of course, dead\ntrees are the home of all sorts of `creepy-crawly' things, and as the\nlog warmed up and the fire eat into the decayed heart and drove thick\nhot smoke through the cracks and corridors and secret places in the logs\nthe occupants would come scuttling out at the butt ends.  Small snakes\nwere common--the big ones usually clearing when the log was first\ndisturbed--and they slipped away into the darkness giving hard quick\nglances about them; but scorpions, centipedes and all sorts of spiders\nwere by far the most numerous.\n\nOccasionally in the mornings we found snakes under our blankets, where\nthey had worked in during the night for the warmth of the human body;\nbut no one was bitten, and one made a practice of getting up at once,\nand with one movement, so that unwelcome visitors should not be warned\nor provoked by any preliminary rolling.  The scorpions, centipedes and\ntarantulas seemed to be more objectionable; but they were quite as\nanxious to get away as we were, and it is wonderful how little damage is\ndone.\n\nOne night when we had been watching them coming out of a big honeycombed\nlog like the animals from the Ark, and were commenting on the\nastonishing number and variety of these things, I heard Jantje conveying\nin high-pitched tones fanciful bits of information to the credulous\nwaggon-boys.  When he found that we too were listening--and Jantje had\nthe storyteller's love for a `gallery'--he turned our way and dropped\ninto a jargon of broken English, helped out with Hottentot-Dutch, which\nit is impossible to reproduce in intelligible form.\n\nHe had made some allusion to `the great battle,' and when I asked for an\nexplanation he told us the story.  It is well enough known in South\nAfrica, and similar stories are to be found in the folklore of other\ncountries, but it had a special interest for us in that Jantje gave it\nas having come to him from his own people.  He called it \"The Great\nBattle between the Things of the Earth and the Things of the Air.\"\n\nFor a long time there had been jealousy between the Things of the Earth\nand the Things of the Air, each claiming superiority for themselves;\neach could do something the others could not do; and each thought their\npowers greater and their qualities superior.  One day a number of them\nhappened to meet on an open plain near the river's bank, and the game of\nbrag began again as usual.  At last the Lion, who was very cross, turned\nto the old Black Aasvogel, as he sat half asleep on a dead tree, and\nchallenged him.\n\n\"You only eat the dead: you steal where others kill.  It is all talk\nwith you; you will not fight!\"\n\nThe Aasvogel said nothing, but let his bald head and bare neck settle\ndown between his shoulders, and closed his eyes.\n\n\"He wakes up soon enough when we find him squatting above the carcase,\"\nsaid the Jackal.  \"See him flop along then.\"\n\n\"When _we_ find him!\" the Aasvogel said, opening his eyes wide.\n\"Sneaking prowler of the night!  Little bastard of the Striped Thief!\"\n\n\"Come down and fight,\" snarled the Hyena angrily.  \"Thief and scavenger\nyourself!\"\n\nSo the Things of the Air gathered about and joined in backing the Black\nAasvogel; and the Things of the Earth kept on challenging them to come\ndown and have it out; but nobody could hear anything because the Jackal\nyapped incessantly and the Go'way bird, with its feathers all on end and\nits neck craned out, screamed itself drunk with passion.\n\nThen the Eagle spoke out:\n\n\"You have talked enough.  Strike--strike for the eyes!\" and he swept\ndown close to the Lion's head, but swerving to avoid the big paw that\ndarted out at him, he struck in passing at the Jackal, and took off part\nof his ear.\n\n\"I am killed!  I am killed!\" screamed the Jackal, racing for a hole to\nhide in.  But the other beasts laughed at him; and when the Lion called\nthem up and bade them take their places in the field for the great\nbattle, the Jackal walked close behind him holding his head on one side\nand showing each one what the Eagle had done.\n\n\"Where is my place?\" asked the Crocodile, in a soft voice, from the bank\nwhere no one had noticed him come up.\n\nThe Things of the Earth that were near him moved quietly away.\n\n\"Your place is in the water,\" the Lion answered.  \"Coward and traitor\nwhom no one trusts!  Who would fight with his back to you?\"\n\nThe Crocodile laughed softly and rolled his green eyes from one to\nanother; and they moved still further away.\n\n\"What am I?\" asked the Ostrich.  \"Kindred of the Birds, I am of the\nwinged ones; yet I cannot fight with them!\"\n\n\"Let him fly!\" said the Jackal, grinning, \"and we shall then see to whom\nhe belongs!  Fly, old Three Sticks!  Fly!\"\n\nThe Ostrich ran at him, waltzing and darting with wings outspread, but\nthe Jackal dodged away under the Lion and squealed out, \"Take your feet\noff the ground, Clumsy, and fly!\"\n\nThen it was arranged that there should be two Umpires, one for each\nparty, and that the Umpires should stand on two high hills where all\ncould see them.  The Ostrich was made Umpire for the Things of the Air,\nand as long as the fight went well with his party he was to hold his\nhead high so that the Things of the Air might see the long thin neck\nupright and, knowing that all was well, fight on.\n\nThe Jackal asked that he might be Umpire for the Things of the Earth.\n\n\"You are too small to be seen!\" objected the Lion gruffly.\n\n\"No!  No!\" urged the Jackal, \"I will stand on a big ant-heap and hold my\nbushy tail on high where all will see it shining silver and gold in the\nsunlight.\"\n\n\"Good!\" said the Lion.  \"It is better so, perhaps, for you would never\nfight; and as soon as one begins to run, others follow!\"\n\nThe Things of the Air gathered in their numbers, and the Eagle led them,\nshowing them how to make up for their weakness by coming swiftly down in\nnumbers where they found their enemies alone or weak; how to keep the\nsun behind them so that it would shine in their enemies' eyes and blind\nthem; and how the loud-voiced ones should attack on the rear and scream\nsuddenly, while those with bill and claw swooped down in front and\nstruck at the eyes.\n\nAnd for a time it went well with the Things of the Air.  The little\nbirds and locusts and butterflies came in clouds about the Lion and he\ncould see nothing as he moved from place to place; and the Things of the\nEarth were confused by these sudden attacks; and, giving up the fight,\nbegan to flee from their places.\n\nThen the Jackal, believing that he would not be found out, cheated: he\nkept his tail up to make them think they were not beaten.  The Lion\nroared to them, so that all could hear, to watch the hill where the\nJackal stood and see the sign of victory; and the Things of the Earth,\nbeing strong, gathered together again and withstood the enemy and drove\nthem off.\n\nThe battle was going against the Things of the Air when the Go'way bird\ncame to the Eagle and said:\n\n\"It is the Jackal who has done this.  Long ago we had won; but, Cheat\nand Coward, he kept his tail aloft and his people have returned and are\nwinning now.\"\n\nThen the Eagle, looking round the field, said, \"Send me the Bee.\"\n\nAnd when the Bee came the Eagle told him what to do; and setting quietly\nabout his work, as his habit is, he made a circuit through the trees\nthat brought him to the hill where the Jackal watched from the ant-heap.\n\nWhile the Jackal stood there with his mouth open and tongue out,\nlaughing to see how his cheating had succeeded, the Bee came up quietly\nbehind and, as Jantje put it, \"stuck him from hereafter!\"\n\nThe Jackal gave a scream of pain and, tucking his tail down, jumped from\nthe ant-heap and ran away into the bush; and when the Things of the\nEarth saw the signal go down they thought that all was lost, and fled.\n\nSo was the Great Battle won!\n\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY ONE.\n\nMONKEYS AND WILDEBEESTE.\n\nMungo was not a perfect mount, but he was a great improvement on\nSnowball; he had a wretched walk, and led almost as badly as his\npredecessor; but this did not matter so much because he could be driven\nlike a pack donkey and relied on not to play pranks.  In a gallop after\ngame he was much faster than Snowball, having a wonderfully long stride\nfor so low a pony.\n\nA horse made a good deal of difference in the hunting in many ways, not\nthe least of which was that some sort of excursion was possible on most\ndays.  One could go further in the time available and, even if delayed,\nstill be pretty sure of catching up to the waggons without much\ndifficulty.\n\nSometimes after a long night's trekking I would start off after\nbreakfast for some `likely' spot, off-saddle there in a shady place,\nsleep during the heat of the day, and after a billy of tea start hunting\ntowards the waggons in the afternoon.\n\nIt was in such a spot on the Komati River, a couple of hundred yards\nfrom the bank, that on one occasion I settled down to make up lost\nground in the matter of sleep, and with Mungo knee-haltered in good\ngrass and Jock beside me, I lay flat on my back with hat covering my\neyes and was soon comfortably asleep.\n\nThe sleep had lasted a couple of hours when I began to dream that it was\nraining and woke up in the belief that a hail storm--following the\nrain--was just breaking over me.  I started up to find all just as it\nhad been, and the sunlight beyond the big tree so glaring as to make the\neyes ache.  Through half-closed lids I saw Mungo lying down asleep and\nmade out Jock standing some yards away quietly watching me.\n\nWith a yawn and stretch I lay back again; sleep was over but a good lazy\nrest was welcome: it had been earned, and, most comforting of all, there\nwas nothing else to be done.  In the doze that followed I was surprised\nto feel quite distinctly something like a drop of rain strike my leg,\nand then another on my hat.\n\n\"Hang it all, it is raining,\" I said, sitting up again and quite wide\nawake this time.  There was Jock still looking at me, but only for the\nmoment of moving, it appears; for, a minute later he looked up into the\ntree above me with ears cocked, head on one side, and tail held lazily\non the horizontal and moving slowly from time to time.\n\nIt was his look of interested amusement.\n\nA couple of leaves fluttered down, and then the half-eaten pip of a\n`wooden orange' struck me in the face as I lay back again to see what\nwas going on above.  The pip gave me the line, and away up among the\nthick dark foliage I saw a little old face looking down at me; the quick\nrestless eyes were watchfully on the move, and the mouth partly opened\nin the shape of an O--face and attitude together a vivid expression of\nsurprise and indignation combined with breathless interest.\n\nAs my eyes fairly met those above me, the monkey ducked its head forward\nand promptly `made a face' at me without uttering a sound.  Then others\nshowed up in different places, and whole figures became visible now as\nthe monkeys stole softly along the branches to get a better look at Jock\nand me: there were a couple of dozen of them of all sizes.\n\nThey are the liveliest, most restless, and most inquisitive of\ncreatures; ludicrously nervous and excitable; quick to chattering anger\nand bursts of hysterical passion, which are intensely comical,\nespecially when they have been scared.  They are creatures whose method\nof progress most readily betrays them by the swaying of a branch or\nquivering of leaves, yet they can steal about and melt away at will,\nlike small grey ghosts, silent as the grave.\n\nI had often tried to trap them, but never succeeded: Jantje caught them,\nas he caught everything, with cunning that out-matched his wilder\nkindred; pitfalls, nooses, whip-traps, fall-traps, foot-snares, drags,\nslip-knots of all kinds, and tricks that I cannot now remember, were in\nhis repertory; but he disliked showing his traps, and when told to\nexplain he would half sulkily show one of the common kind.\n\nThe day he caught the monkey he was well pleased, and may possibly have\ntold the truth.  Baboons and monkeys, he said, can count just like men,\nbut they can only count two!  If one man goes into a mealie field and\nwaits for them with a gun, their sentry will see him, and he may wait\nfor ever; if two go and one remains, it is useless, for they realise\nthat only one has come out where two went in; but if three go in, one\nmay remain behind to lie in wait for them, for the monkeys, seeing more\nthan one return, will invade the mealie field as soon as the two are\nsafely out of the way.  That was only Jantje's explanation of the\nwell-known fact that monkeys and baboons know the difference between one\nand more than one.\n\nBut, as Jantje explained, their cleverness helped him to catch them.  He\nwent alone and came away alone, leaving his trap behind, knowing that\nthey were watching his every movement, but knowing also that their\nintense curiosity would draw them to it the moment it seemed safe.  The\ntrap he used was an old calabash or gourd with a round hole in it about\nan inch in diameter; and a few pumpkin seeds and mealies and a hard\ncrust of bread, just small enough to get into the calabash, formed the\nbait.\n\nAfter fastening the gourd by a cord to a small stump, he left it lying\non its side on the ground where he had been sitting.  A few crumbs and\nseeds were dropped near it and the rest placed in the gourd, with one or\ntwo showing in the mouth.  Then he walked off on the side where he would\nbe longest in view, and when well out of sight sped round in a circuit\nto a previously selected spot where he could get close up again and\nwatch.\n\nThe foremost monkey was already on the ground when he got back and\nothers were hanging from low branches or clinging to the stems, ready to\ndrop or retreat.  Then began the grunts and careful timid approaches,\nsuch as one sees in a party of children hunting for the hidden `ghost'\nwho is expected to appear suddenly and chase them; next, the chattering\ngarrulous warnings and protests from the timid ones--the females--in the\nupper branches; the sudden start and scurry of one of the youngsters;\nand the scare communicated to all, making even the leader jump back a\npace; then his angry grunt and loud scolding of the frightened ones--\nangry because they had given him a fright, and loud because he was\nreassuring himself.\n\nAfter a pause they began the careful roundabout approach and the\nsquatting and waiting, making pretences of not being particularly\ninterested, while their quick eyes watched everything; then the deft\npicking up of one thing--instantly dropped again, as one picks up a\nroasted chestnut and drops it in the same movement, in case it should be\nhot; and finally the greedy scramble and chatter.\n\nI have seen all that, but not, alas, the successful ending, when trying\nto imitate Jantje's methods.  Jantje waited until the tugs at the gourd\nbecame serious, and then, knowing that the smaller things had been taken\nout or shaken out and eaten and that some enterprising monkey had put\nits arm into the hole and grabbed the crust, he ran out.\n\nA monkey rarely lets go any food it has grabbed, and when, as in this\ncase, the hand is jammed in a narrow neck, the letting go cannot easily\nbe done instinctively or inadvertently; the act requires a deliberate\neffort.  So Jantje caught his monkey, and flinging his ragged coat over\nthe captive sat down to make it safe.  By pushing the monkey's arm\ndeeper into the gourd the crust became released and the hand freed; he\nthen gradually shifted the monkey about until he got the head into the\nshoulders of the loose old coat, and thence into the sleeve; and worked\naway at this until he had the creature as helpless as a mummy with the\nhead appearing at the cuff-opening and the body jammed in the sleeve\nlike a bulging overstuffed sausage.  The monkey struggled, screamed,\nchattered, made faces, and cried like a child; but Jantje gripping it\nbetween his knees worked away unmoved.\n\nHe next took the cord from the calabash and tied one end securely round\nthe monkey's neck, to the shrinking horror of that individual, and the\nother end to a stout bush stick about seven or eight feet long; and then\nslipped monkey cord and stick back through the sleeve and had his\ncaptive safe; the cord prevented it from getting away, and the stick\nfrom getting too close and biting him.  When they sat opposite and\npulled faces at each other the family likeness was surprising.\n\nThe grimacing little imps invariably tempt one to tease or chase them,\njust to see their antics and methods; and when I rose, openly watching\nthem and stepping about for a better view, they abandoned the silent\nmethods and bounded freely from branch to branch for fresh cover, always\nducking behind something if I pointed the gun or a stick or even my arm\nat them, and getting into paroxysms of rage and leaning over slang and\ncheek me whenever it seemed safe.\n\nJock was full of excitement, thoroughly warmed up and anxious to be at\nthem, running about from place to place to watch them, tacking and\nturning and jumping for better views, and now and then running to the\ntrunk and scraping at it.  Whenever he did this there was a moment's\nsilence; the idea of playing a trick on them struck me and I caught Jock\nup and put him in the fork of a big main branch about six feet from the\nground.  The effect was magical: the whole of the top of the tree seemed\nto whip and rustle at once, and in two seconds there was not a monkey\nleft.\n\nThen a wave in the top of a small tree some distance off betrayed them\nand we gave chase--a useless romping schoolboy chase.  They were in the\nsmall trees away from the river and it was easy to see and follow them;\nand to add to the fun and excitement I threw stones at the branches\nbehind them.  Their excitement and alarm then became hysterical, and as\nwe darted about to head them off they were several times obliged to\nscamper a few yards along the ground to avoid me and gain other trees.\nIt was then that Jock enjoyed himself most: he ran at them and made\nflying leaps and snaps as they sprang up the trees out of reach.  It was\nlike a caricature of children in one of their make-believe chases; the\nscreams, grimaces, and actions were so human that it would have seemed\nlike a tragedy had one of them been hurt.  They got away into the big\ntrees once more, to Jock's disappointment but greatly to my relief; for\nI was quite pumped from the romp and laughter.\n\nThe river at this point was broken into several sluices by islands\nformed of piles of rocks on which there were a few stunted trees and\ndense growths of tall reeds, and here and there little spits and fringes\nof white sand were visible.  There was plenty of small game in that\npart, and it was a great place for crocodiles.  As we were then about\nhalf a mile below where Mungo had been left I strolled along the bank on\nthe look out for a shot, frequently stopping to examine\nsuspicious-looking rocks on the sand spits or at the borders of the reed\nfringes on the little islands.\n\nThe shooting of crocodiles was an act of war: it was enmity and not\nsport or a desire for trophies that prompted it, and when it did not\ninterfere with other chances we never missed a practice shot at these\nfellows.  I picked out several `rocks,' so suspicious looking that I\nwould have had a shot at them had there been a clear chance, and twice,\nwhile I was trying to make them out, they slid silently into the water\nbefore there was time to fire.\n\nHowever, further on there came a better chance than any: there was\nsomething so peculiar about the look of this `rock' that I picked a good\nspot and sat down to watch it; and presently the part nearest me turned\nslightly, just enough to show that it was a crocodile lying on the flat\nsand with his nose towards me and his tail hidden in the reeds.  It was\nfifty yards away, and from where I sat there was not much to aim at, as\na Martini bullet would glance from almost any part of that polished hard\ncase if it struck at such an angle.\n\nI was sitting on the bank above the shelving beach of the river on which\na dense mass of reeds grew, and the waving feathery tops partly obscured\nthe sight.  I know the bullet hit him somewhere, because he bounded with\nastonishing strength and activity several feet in the air and his tail\nslashed through the reeds like a mighty scythe.  The huge jaws opened\nand he gave a horrible angry bellow--something between a roar and a\nsnarl--as he plunged into the river, sending masses of spray and water\nflying every way.  He made straight across, apparently at me, swimming\non top of the water at amazing speed and throwing up a wave on either\nside and a white swirl of foam from the propelling tail.\n\nIt was certainly a most surprising and unheard-of proceeding, and as he\nreached my side of the stream, and because hidden from me by the screen\nof reeds at my feet, I turned and bolted.  It may be that he came at me\nwith murderous intent; or it may be that, blinded by rage or pain, he\ncame towards me simply because he happened to be facing that way; but,\nwhatever the reason, it was painfully clear that if he meant business he\nwould be on to me before it was possible to see him in the reeds.  That\nwas enough for me.  It had never occurred to me that there was going to\nbe any fun in this for the crocodile; but one's sense of humour and\njustice was always being stimulated in the Bushveld.\n\nWith twenty yards of open ground between us I turned and waited; but no\ncrocodile appeared, nor was there a sound to be heard in the reeds.  A\nfew minutes wait; a cautious return; a careful scrutiny; and then resort\nto sticks and stones; but all to no purpose: there was neither sign nor\nsound of the crocodile; and not being disposed to go into the reeds to\nlook for something which I did not want, but might want me, I returned\nto Mungo--a little wiser, it is true, but not unduly `heady' on that\naccount.\n\nHalf an hour's jogging along the bank having failed to propose anything,\nI struck away from the river taking a line through the bush towards\ncamp, and eventually came across a small herd of blue wildebeeste.\nMungo's pricked ears and raised head warned me; but the grass being high\nit was not easy to see enough of them from the ground to place an\neffective shot, and before a chance offered they moved off slowly.  I\nwalked after them, leading Mungo and trying to get a fair opening on\nslightly higher ground.\n\nPresently half a dozen blackish things appeared above the tall grass;\nthey were the heads of the wildebeeste--all turned one way, and all\nlooking at us with ears wide spread.  Only the upper halves of the heads\nwere visible through the thinner tops of the grass, and even an ordinary\nstanding shot was not possible.  I had to go to a tree for support in\norder to tip-toe for the shot, and whilst in the act of raising my rifle\nthe heads disappeared; but I took chance and fired just below where the\nlast one had shown up.\n\nThe wildebeeste were out of sight, hidden by grass six feet high, but a\nbranch of the tree beside me served as a horizontal bar and hoisting\nmyself chin high I was able to see them again.  In front of us there was\na dry vlei quite free of bush, some two hundred yards across and four\nhundred yards long, and the wildebeeste had gone away to the right and\nwere skirting the vlei, apparently meaning to get round to the opposite\nside, avoiding the direct cut across the vlei for reasons of their own.\nIt occurred to me that there must be a deep donga or perhaps a mud hole\nin front which they were avoiding; but that it might be possible for me\nto get across, or even half-way across, in time to have another shot at\nthem the next time they stopped to look back, as they were almost\ncertain to do; so I ran straight on.\n\nOne does not have to reason things out like that in actual practice: the\nconclusion comes instantly, as if by instinct, and no time is lost.  To\ndrop from the branch, pick up the rifle, and start running were all\nparts of one movement.  Stooping slightly to prevent my bobbing hat from\nshowing up in the grass tops, and holding the rifle obliquely before me\nas a sort of snowplough to clear the grass from my eyes, I made as good\npace as the ground would allow.\n\nNo doubt the rifle held in front of me made it difficult to notice\nanything on the ground; but the concentrated stare across the vlei in\nthe direction of the galloping wildebeeste was quite as much the cause\nof what followed.  Going fast and stooping low, with all my weight\nthrown forward, I ran right into a wildebeeste cow.  My shot had wounded\nher through the kidneys, completely paralysing the hind quarters, and\nshe had instantly dropped out of sight in the grass.  The only warning I\ngot was a furious snort, and the black looking monster with great\nblazing blood-shot eyes rose up on its front legs as I ran into it.\n\nTo charge into a wounded wildebeeste ready to go for you, just when your\nwhole attention is concentrated upon others two hundred yards beyond, is\nnearly as unpleasant as it is unexpected; it becomes a question of what\nwill happen to you, rather than of what you will do.  That at any rate\nwas my experience.  The rifle, if it had hindered me, also helped: held\nout at arms length it struck the wildebeeste across the forehead and the\ncollision saved my chest from the horns.  There was an angry toss of the\nbig head and the rifle was twirled out of my hand, as one might flip a\nmatch away.\n\nI do not know exactly what happened: the impression is of a breathless\nsecond's whirl and scramble, and then finding myself standing untouched\nfive yards away, with the half-paralysed wildebeeste squatting like a\ndog and struggling to drag the useless hind quarters along in its\nfurious efforts to get at Jock who had already intervened to help me.\n\nThe rifle lay within the circle of the big hooked horns; and the\nsquatting animal, making a pivot of its hind quarters, slewed round and\nround, making savage lunges at Jock and great heaves at me each time I\ntried to get the rifle.  It often happens that shots touching the\nkidneys produce a paralysis, temporarily severe, which passes off to a\ngreat extent after some minutes and leaves the wounded animal well able\nto charge: it happened to me some years later while trying to photograph\na wounded sable.\n\nI tried to hook the gun out with a stick but the wildebeeste swung round\nand faced me at once, snapping the sticks and twirling them out of my\nhands with surprising ease and quickness.  I then tried another game,\nand by making feint attacks from the other side at last got the animal\ngradually worked away from my gun; and the next attempt at raking was\nsuccessful.\n\nWhen the excitement was over and there was a chance of taking stock of\nthe position, I found that Jock had a pretty good `gravel rash' on one\nhip and a nasty cut down one leg; he had caught the wildebeeste by the\nnose the instant I ran into it, and it had `wiped the floor' with him\nand flung him aside.\n\nI found my bandolier with a broken buckle lying on the grass; one shirt\nsleeve was ripped open; the back of the right hand cut across; hands and\nknees were well grated; and there were lumps and bruises about the legs\nfor which there was no satisfactory explanation.  I must have scrambled\nout like an unwilling participant in a dog fight.\n\nIt was a long job skinning, cutting up, and packing the wildebeeste, and\nwhen we reached the outspan the waggons had already started and we had a\nlong tramp before us to catch them.\n\nI drove Mungo before me, keeping him at an easy-jog.  We had been going\nfor possibly an hour and it was quite dark, except for the stars and the\nyoung moon low down on our right; the road was soft and Mungo's jogging\npaces sounded like floppy pats; there was no other sound at all, not\neven a distant rumble from the waggons to cheer us; Mungo must have been\nsick of it and one might have thought him jogging in his sleep but for\nthe occasional pricking of his ears--a trick that always makes me wonder\nhow much more do horses see in the dark than we do.  I walked like a\nmachine, with rifle on shoulder and glad to be rid of the broken\nbandolier, then transferred to Mungo; and Jock trotted at my heels.\n\nThis tired monotonous progress was disturbed by Mungo: his ears pricked;\nhis head went up; and he stopped, looking hard at a big low bush on our\nleft.  I gave him a tap with the switch, and without an instant\nhesitation he dashed off to the right making a half circle through the\nveld and coming into the road again fifty yards ahead, and galloped away\nleaving a rising column of dust behind him.\n\nI stood and faced the bush that Mungo had shied at, and the first thing\nthat occurred to me was that my bandolier and cartridges were with the\npony.  Then Jock growled low and moved a few steps forward and slightly\nto the right, also sheering off from that bush.  I felt that he was\nbristling all over, but there was neither time nor light to watch him.\nI stepped slowly sideways after him gripping the rifle and looking hard\nat the bush.\n\nOur line was much the same as Mungo's and would take us some seven or\neight paces off the road--more than that was not possible owing to the\nbarrier of thorns on that side.  When we got abreast of the bush two\nlarge spots of pale light appeared in the middle of it, apparently waist\nhigh from the ground.\n\nIt is impossible to forget the tense creepy feeling caused by the dead\nstillness, the soft light, and the pale expressionless glow of those\neyes--the haunting mystery of eyes and nothing more!\n\nIt is not unusual to see eyes in the night; but this was a `nervy'\noccasion, and there is no other that comes back with all the vividness\nand reality of the experience itself, as this one does.  And I was not\nthe only nervous one.  Mungo incontinently bolted--probably what he saw\nwarranted it; Jock, as ever, faced it; but when my foot touched his hind\nleg as we sidled away he flew round with a convulsive jump.  He too was\nstrung to concert pitch.\n\nAs we moved on and passed the reflecting angle of the moon, the light of\nthe eyes went out as suddenly and silently as it had appeared.  There\nwas nothing then to show me where danger lay; but Jock knew, and I kept\na watch on him.  He jogged beside me, lagging slightly as if to cover\nour retreat, always looking back.  A couple of times he stopped entirely\nand stood in the road, facing straight back and growling; and I followed\nsuit.  He was in command; he knew!\n\nThere was nothing more.  Gradually Jock's subdued purring growl died\ndown and the glances back became fewer.  I found Mungo a long way on,\nbrought to a standstill by the slipping of his load; and we caught up to\nthe waggons at the next outspan.\n\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY TWO.\n\nTHE OLD CROCODILE.\n\nWe reached the Crocodile River drift on a Sunday morning, after a\nparticularly dry and dusty night trek.  `Wanting a wash' did not on such\noccasions mean a mild inclination for a luxury: it meant that washing\nwas badly needed.  The dust lay inches deep on the one worn veld road,\nand the long strings of oxen toiling along kicked up suffocating clouds\nof fine dust which there was seldom any breeze to carry off: it powdered\nwhite man and black to an equal level of yellowy red.  The waggons were\na couple of hundred yards from the river; and, taking a complete change,\nI went off for a real clean up.\n\nWe generally managed to get in a couple of bathes at the rivers--real\nswims--but that was only done in the regular drifts and when there were\npeople about or waggons crossing.  In such conditions crocodiles rarely\nappeared; they prefer solitude and silence.  The swims were very\ndelightful but somewhat different from ordinary bathes; however remote\nmay have been the risk of meeting a crocodile when you dived, or of\nbeing grabbed by one as you swam, the idea was always there and made it\nmore interesting.\n\nBeing alone that day I had no intention of having a swim or of going\ninto the open river, and I took a little trouble to pick a suitable pool\nwith a rock on which to stand and dress.  The water was clear and I\ncould see the bottom of the pool.  It was quite shallow--three feet deep\nat most--made by a scour in the sandy bed and divided from the main\nstream by a narrow spit of sand a couple of yards wide and twenty long.\nAt the top end of the sand spit was a flat rock--my dressing table.\n\nAfter a dip in the pool I stood on to the sand spit to scrub off the\nbrown dust, keeping one unsoaped eye roving round for intrusive\ncrocodiles, and the loaded rifle lying beside me.  The brutes slide out\nso silently and unexpectedly that in that exposed position, with water\nall round, one could not afford to turn one's back on any quarter for\nlong.  There is something laughable--it seemed faintly humorous even\nthen--in the idea of a naked man hastily washing soap out of his eyes\nand squeezing away the water to take a hurried look behind him, and then\nafter careful survey, doing an `altogether' dowse just as hastily--\nblowing and spluttering all the time like a boy after his first dive.\n\nThe bath was successful and ended without incident--not a sign of a\ncrocodile the whole time!  Breakfast was ready when I reached the\nwaggons, and feeling very fit and clean in a fresh flannel shirt and\nwhite moleskins, I sat down to it.  Jim Makokel' brought the kettle of\ncoffee from the fire and was in the act of pouring some into a big mug\nwhen he stopped with a grunt of surprise and, looking towards the river,\ncalled out sharply, \"What is it?\"\n\nOne of the herd boys was coming at a trot towards us, and the drivers,\nthinking something had happened to the oxen, called a question to him.\nHe did not answer until he reached them and even then spoke in so quiet\na tone that I could not catch what he said.  But Jim, putting down the\nkettle, ran to his waggon and grabbing his sticks and assegais called to\nme in a husky shouting whisper--which imperfectly describes Jim's way of\nrelieving his feelings, without making the whole world echo: \"Ingwenye,\nInkos!  Ingwenye Umkulu!  Big Clocodile!  Groot Krokodil, Baas!\"\n\nThen abandoning his excited polyglot he gabbled off in pure Zulu and at\nincredible speed a long account of the big Crocodile: it had carried off\nfour boys going to the goldfields that year; it had taken a woman and a\nbaby from the kraal near by, but a white man had beaten it off with a\nbucket; it had taken all the dogs, and even calves and goats, at the\ndrinking-place; and goodness knows how much more.  How Jim got his news,\nand when he made his friends, were puzzles never solved.\n\nHunting stories, like travellers tales, are proverbially dangerous to\nreputations, however literally true they may be; and this is necessarily\nso, partly because only exceptional things are worth telling, and partly\nbecause the conditions of the country or the life referred to are\nunfamiliar and cannot be grasped.  It is a depressing but accepted fact\nthat the ideal, lurid--and, I suppose, convincing--pictures of wild life\nare done in London, where the author is unhampered by fact or\nexperience.\n\n\"Stick to the impossible, and you will be believed: keep clear of fact\nand commonplace, and you cannot be checked.\"\n\nSuch was the cynical advice given many years ago by one who had bought\nhis experience in childhood and could not forget it.  Sent home as a\nsmall boy from a mission station in Zululand to be educated by his\ngrandparents, he found the demand for marvels among his simple country\nrelatives so great that his small experience of snakes and wild animals\nwas soon used up; but the eager suggestive questions of the good people,\nold and young, led him on, and he shyly crossed the border.  The Fields\nof Fancy were fair and free; there were no fences there; and he stepped\nout gaily into the Little People's country--The Land of Let's Pretendia!\nHe became very popular.\n\nOne day, however, whilst looking at the cows, he remarked that in\nZululand a cow would not yield her milk unless the calf stood by.\n\nThe old farmer stopped in his walk, gave him one suspicious look, and\nasked coldly, \"What do they do when a calf is killed or dies?\"\n\n\"They never kill the calves there;\" the boy answered, \"but once when one\ndied father stuffed the skin, with grass and showed it to the cow;\nbecause they said that would do.\"\n\nThe old man, red with anger, took the boy to his room, saying that as\nlong as he spoke of the lions, tigers and snakes that he knew about,\nthey believed him; but when it came to farming!  No!  Downright lying he\nwould not have; and there was nothing for it but larruping.\n\n\"It was the only piece of solid truth they had allowed me to tell for\nmonths,\" he added thoughtfully, \"and I got a first-class hiding for it.\"\n\nAnd was there no one who doubted Du Chaillu and Stanley and others?  Did\nno one question Gordon Cumming's story of the herd of elephants caught\nand killed in a little kloof? and did not we of Barberton many years\nlater locate the spot by the enormous pile of bones, and name it\n\"Elephants' Kloof?\"\n\nThere are two crocodile incidents well-known to those whom time has now\nmade old hands, but believed by no one else; even in the day of their\nhappening they divided men into believers and unbelievers.  The one was\nof `Mad' Owen--only mad, because utterly reckless--riding through Komati\nDrift one moonlight night alone and unarmed, who, riding, found his\nhorse brought to a stop, plunging, kicking and struggling on the sand\nbank in mid-stream where the water was not waist deep.  Owen looking\nback saw that a crocodile had his horse by the leg.  All he had was a\nleaded hunting-crop, but, jumping into the water he laid on so\nvigorously that the crocodile made off, and Owen remounted and rode out.\n\nThere are many who say that it is not true--that it cannot be true; for\nno man would do it.  But there are others who have an open mind, because\nthey knew Owen--Mad Owen, who for a wager bandaged his horse's eyes and\ngalloped him over a twenty foot bank headlong into the Jew's Hole in\nLydenburg; Owen, who when driving four young horses in a Cape cart flung\nthe reins away and whipped up the team, bellowing with laughter, because\nhis nervous companion said he had never been upset and did not want to\nbe; Owen, who--But too many things rise up that earned him his title and\nblow the `impossible' to the winds.\n\nMad Owen deserves a book to himself; but here is my little testimony on\nhis behalf, given shamefaced at the thought of how he would roar to\nthink it needed.\n\nI crossed that same drift one evening and on riding up the bank to\nFurley's store saw a horse standing in a dejected attitude with one hind\nleg clothed in `trowsers' made of sacking and held up by a suspender\ningeniously fastened across his back.\n\nDuring the evening something reminded me of the horse, and I asked a\nquestion; and the end of Furley's answer was, \"They say it's all a yarn\nabout `horsewhipping' a crocodile: all we know is that one night, a week\nago, he turned up here dripping wet, and after having a drink told us\nthe yarn.  He had the leaded hunting-crop in his hand; and that's the\nhorse he was riding.  You can make what you like of it.  We've been\ndoctoring the horse ever since, but I doubt if it will pull through!\"\n\nI have no doubt about the incident.  Owen did not invent: he had no need\nto; and Furley himself was no mean judge of crocodiles and men.  Furley\nkept a ferry boat for the use of natives and others when the river was\nup, at half a crown a trip.  The business ran itself and went strong\nduring the summer floods, but in winter when the river was low and\nfordable it needed pushing; and then Furley's boatman, an intelligent\nnative, would loiter about the drift and interest travellers in his\ncrocodile stories, and if they proved over-confident or sceptical, would\nmanoeuvre them a little way down stream where, from the bank, they would\nusually see a big crocodile sunning himself on a sand spit below the\ndrift.  The boys always took the boat.  One day some police entered the\nstore and joyously announced that they had got him--\"bagged the old\nvillain at last!\"; and Furley dropped on a sack of mealies groaning out\n\"Glory, Boys!  The ferry's ruined.  Why, I've preserved him for years!\"\n\nThe other crocodile incident concerns \"Lying Tom\"--brave merry-faced\nblue-eyed Tom; bubbling with good humour; overflowing with kindness; and\nfull of the wildest yarns, always good and amusing, but so steep that\nthey made the most case-hardened draw a long breath.\n\nThe name Lying Tom was understood and accepted by every one in the\nplace, barring Tom himself; for, oddly enough, there was another Tom of\nthe same surname, but no relation, and once when his name cropped up I\nheard the real Simon Pure refer to him as \"my namesake--the chap they\ncall Lying Tom.\"  To the day of his death Tom believed that it was the\nother Tom who was esteemed the liar.\n\nTom was a prospector who `came in' occasionally for supplies or\nlicences; and there came a day when Barberton was convulsed by Lying\nTom's latest.\n\nHe had been walking along the bank of the Crocodile River, and on\nhearing screams ran down just in time to see a kaffir woman with a child\non her back dragged off through the shallow water by a crocodile.  Tom\nran in to help--\"I kicked the dashed thing on the head and in the eyes,\"\nhe said, \"and punched its ribs and then grabbed the bucket that the\nwoman had in her hand and hammered the blamed thing over the head till\nit let go.  By Jimminy, Boys, the woman was in a mess: never saw any one\nin such a fright!\"\n\nPoor Tom suffered from consumption in the throat and talked in husky\njerks broken by coughs and laughter.  Is there one among them who knew\nhim who does not remember the breezy cheeriness, the indomitable pluck,\nthe merry blue eyes, so limpidly clear, the expressive bushy eyebrows,\nand the teeth, too perfect to be wasted on a man, and ever flashing with\nhis unfailing smiles?\n\nTom would end up with--\"Niggers said I was `takati': asked for some of\nmy medicine!  Blamed got no pluck: would've let the woman go.\"\n\nOf course this story went the rounds latest and best; but one day we\nturned up in Barberton to deliver our loads, and that evening a whisper\nwent about and men with faces humorously puzzled looked at one another\nand said \"Lying Tom's a fraud: the crocodile story is true!\"\n\nFor our party, shooting guinea-fowl in the kaffir lands along the river,\ncame upon a kraal where there sat a woman with an arm so scarred and\nmarked that we could not but ask what had caused it.  There was no\ndifference in the stories, except that the kaffirs after saying that the\nwhite man had kicked the crocodile and beaten it with the bucket, added\n\"and he kicked and beat with the bucket the two men who were there,\nsaying that they were not men but dogs, who would not go in and help the\nwoman.  But he was bewitched: the crocodile could not touch him!\"\n\nSome of Tom's stories were truly incredible, but not those in which he\nfigured to advantage: he was too brave a man to have consciously gained\ncredit he did not deserve.  He died, slowly starved to death by the\ncruel disease--the brave, kindly, cheery spirit, smiling unbeaten to the\nend.\n\nThat was what Jim referred to when he called me to kill the murderer of\nwomen and children.  It pleased him and others to say that this was the\nsame crocodile; and I believe it was.  The locality was the same, and\nthe kraal boys said that it was in the old place from which all its\nmurderous raids had been made; and that was all we knew.\n\nI took the rifle and went with the herd boy; Jim followed close behind,\nwalking on his toes with the waltzy springy movement of an ostrich,\neager to get ahead and repeatedly silenced and driven back by me in the\nfew hundred yards' walk to the river.\n\nA queer premonitory feeling came over me as I saw we were making\nstraight for the bathing pool; but before reaching the bank the herd boy\nsquatted down, indicating that somewhere in front and below us the enemy\nwould be found.  An easy crawl brought me to the river bank and, sure\nenough, on the very spot where I had stood to wash, only fifty yards\nfrom us, there was an enormous crocodile.  He was lying along the sand\nspit with his full length exposed to me.  Such a shot would have been a\nmoral certainty, but as I brought the rifle slowly up it may have\nglinted in the sun, or perhaps the crocodile had been watching us all\nthe time, for with one easy turn and no splash at all he slid into the\nriver and was gone.\n\nIt was very disgusting and I pitched into Jim and the other boys behind\nfor having made a noise and shown themselves; but they were still\nsquatting when I reached them and vowed they had neither moved nor\nspoken.  We had already turned to go when there came a distant call from\nbeyond the river.  To me it was merely a kaffir's voice and a sound\nquite meaningless: but to the boys' trained ears it spoke clearly.  Jim\npressed me downwards and we all squatted again.\n\n\"He is coming out on another sandbank,\" Jim explained.\n\nAgain I crawled to the bank and lay flat, with the rifle ready.  There\nwas another sand streak a hundred yards out in the stream with two\nout-croppings of black rock at the upper end of it--they were rocks\nright enough, for I had examined them carefully when bathing.  This was\nthe only other sandbank in sight: it was higher than it appeared to be\nfrom a distance and the crocodile whilst hidden from us was visible to\nthe natives on the opposite bank as it lay in the shallow water and\nemerged inch by inch to resume its morning sun bath.  The crocodile was\nso slow in showing up that I quite thought it had been scared off again,\nand I turned to examine other objects and spots up and down the stream;\nbut presently glancing back at the bank again I saw what appeared to be\na third rock, no bigger than a loaf of bread.  This object I watched\nuntil my eyes ached and swam; it was the only possible crocodile; yet it\nwas so small, so motionless, so permanent looking, it seemed absurd to\ndoubt that it really was a stone which had passed unnoticed before.\n\nAs I watched unblinkingly it seemed to grow bigger and again contract\nwith regular swing, as if it swelled and shrank with breathing; and\nknowing that this must be merely an optical delusion caused by staring\ntoo long, I shut my eyes for a minute.  The effect was excellent: the\nrock was much bigger; and after that it was easy to lie still and wait\nfor the cunning old reptile to show himself.\n\nIt took half an hour of this cautious manoeuvring and edging on the part\nof the crocodile before he was comfortably settled on the sand with the\nsun warming all his back.  In the meantime the waggon-boys behind me had\nnot stirred; on the opposite side of the river kaffirs from the\nneighbouring kraal had gathered to the number of thirty or forty, men,\nwomen and children, and they stood loosely grouped, instinctively still\nsilent and watchful, like a little scattered herd of deer.  All on both\nsides were watching me and waiting for the shot.  It seemed useless to\ndelay longer; the whole length of the body was showing, but it looked so\nwanting in thickness, so shallow in fact, that it was evident the\ncrocodile was lying, not on the top, but on the other slope of the sand\nspit; and probably not more than six or eight inches--in depth--of body\nwas visible.\n\nIt was little enough to aim at, and the bullet seemed to strike the top\nof the bank first, sending up a column of sand, and then, probably\nknocked all out of shape, ploughed into the body with a tremendous\nthump.\n\nThe crocodile threw a back somersault--that is, it seemed to rear up on\nits tail and spring backwards; the jaws divided into a huge fork as, for\na second, it stood up on end; and it let out an enraged roar, seemingly\naimed at the heavens.  It was a very sudden and dramatic effect,\nfollowing on the long silence.\n\nThen the whole world seemed to burst into indescribable turmoil; shouts\nand yells burst out on all sides; the kaffirs rushed down to the banks--\nthe men armed with sticks and assegais, and the women and children with\nnothing more formidable than their voices; the crocodile was alive--very\nmuch alive--and in the water; the waggon-boys, headed by Jim, were all\nround me and all yelling out together what should or should not be done,\nand what would happen if we did or did not do it.  It was Babel and\nBedlam let loose.\n\nWith the first plunge the crocodile disappeared, but it came up again\nten yards away thrashing the water into foam and going up stream like a\npaddle-boat gone reeling roaring mad--if one can imagine such a thing!\nI had another shot at him the instant he reappeared, but one could\nneither see nor hear where it struck; and again and again I fired\nwhenever he showed up for a second.  He appeared to be shot through the\nlungs; at any rate the kaffirs on the other bank, who were then quite\nclose enough to see, said that it was so.  The waggon-boys had run down\nthe bank out on to the first sand spit and I followed them, shouting to\nthe kaffirs opposite to get out of the line of fire, as I could no\nlonger shoot without risk of hitting them.\n\nThe crocodile after his first straight dash up stream had tacked about\nin all directions during the next few minutes, disappearing for short\nspells and plunging out again in unexpected places.  One of these sudden\nreappearances brought him once more abreast, and quite near to us, and\nJim with a fierce yell and with his assegai held high in his right hand\ndashed into the water, going through the shallows in wild leaps.  I\ncalled to him to come back but against his yells and the excited shouts\nof the ever-increasing crowd my voice could not live; and Jim, mad with\nexcitement, went on.  Twenty yards out, where increasing depth steadied\nhim, he turned for a moment and seeing himself alone in the water called\nto me with eager confidence, \"Come on, Baas.\"\n\nIt had never occurred to me that any one would be such an idiot as to go\ninto water after a wounded crocodile.  There was no need to finish off\nthis one, for it was bound to die, and no one wanted the meat or skin.\nWho, then, would be so mad as to think of such a thing?  Five minutes\nearlier I would have answered very confidently for myself; but there are\ntimes when one cannot afford to be sensible.  There was a world of\nunconscious irony in Jim's choice of words \"_Come_ on!\" and \"_Baas_!\"\n\nThe boy giving the lead to his master was too much for me; and in I\nwent!\n\nI cannot say that there was much enjoyment in it for the first few\nmoments--not until the excitement took hold and all else was forgotten.\nThe first thing that struck me was that in the deep water my rifle was\nworth no more than a walking-stick, and not nearly as useful as an\nassegai; but what drove this and many other thoughts from my mind in a\nsecond was the appearance of Jock on the stage and his sudden jump into\nthe leading place.\n\nIn the first confusion he had passed unnoticed, probably at my heels as\nusual, but the instant I answered Jim's challenge by jumping into the\nwater he gave one whimpering yelp of excitement and plunged in too; and\nin a few seconds he had outdistanced us all and was leading straight for\nthe crocodile.  I shouted to him, of course in vain--he heard nothing;\nand Jim and I plunged and struggled along to head the dog off.\n\nAs the crocodile came up Jock went straight for him--his eyes gleaming,\nhis shoulders up, his nose out, his neck stretched to the utmost in his\neagerness--and he ploughed along straining every muscle to catch up.\nWhen the crocodile went under he slackened and looked anxiously about,\nbut each fresh rise was greeted by the whimpering yelps of intense\nsuppressed excitement as he fairly hoisted himself out of the water with\nthe vigour of his swimming.\n\nThe water was now breast-high for us, and we were far out in the stream,\nbeyond the sand spit where the crocodile had lain, when the kaffirs on\nthe bank got their first chance and a flight of assegais went at the\nenemy as he rose.  Several struck and two remained in him; he rose again\na few yards from Jim, and that sportsman let fly one that struck well\nhome.  Jock, who had been toiling close behind for some time and gaining\nslowly, was not five yards off then; the floundering and lashing of the\ncrocodile were bewildering, but on he went as grimly and eagerly as\never.  I fired again--not more than eight yards away--but the water was\nthen up to my arms, and it was impossible to pick a vital part; the\nbrain and neck were the only spots to finish him, but one could see\nnothing beyond a great upheaval of water and clouds of spray and\nblood-stained foam.\n\nThe crocodile turned from the shot and dived up stream, heading straight\nfor Jock: the din of yelling voices stopped instantly as the huge\nopen-mouthed thing plunged towards the dog; and for one sick horrified\nmoment I stood and watched--helpless.\n\nHad the crocodile risen in front of Jock that would have been the end--\none snap would have done it; but it passed clear underneath, and, coming\nup just beyond him, the great lashing tail sent the dog up with the\ncolumn of water a couple of feet in the air.  He did as he had done when\nthe koodoo bull tossed him: his head was round straining to get at the\ncrocodile before he was able to turn his body in the water; and the\nsilence was broken by a yell of wild delight and approval from the bank.\n\nBefore us the water was too deep and the stream too strong to stand in;\nJim in his eagerness had gone in shoulder high, and my rifle when aimed\nonly just cleared the water.  The crocodile was the mark for more\nassegais from the bank as it charged up stream again, with Jock tailing\nbehind, and it was then easy enough to follow its movements by the\nshafts that were never all submerged.  The struggles became perceptibly\nweaker, and as it turned again to go with the stream every effort was\nconcentrated on killing and landing it before it reached the rocks and\nrapids.\n\nI moved back for higher ground and, finding that the bed shelved up\nrapidly down stream, made for a position where there would be enough\nelevation to put in a brain shot.  The water was not more than waist\nhigh then, and as the crocodile came rolling and thrashing down I waited\nfor his head to show up clearly.  My right foot touched a sloping rock\nwhich rose almost to the surface of the water close above the rapids,\nand anxious to get the best possible position for a last shot, I took my\nstand there.  The rock was the ordinary shelving bedrock, uptilted at an\neasy angle and cut off sheer on the exposed side, and the wave in the\ncurrent would have shown this to any one not wholly occupied with other\nthings; but I had eyes for nothing except the crocodile which was then\nless than a dozen yards off, and in my anxiety to secure a firm footing\nfor the shot I moved the right foot again a few inches--over the edge of\nthe rock.  The result was as complete a spill as if one unthinkingly\nstepped backwards off a diving board: I disappeared in deep water, with\nthe knowledge that the crocodile would join me there in a few seconds.\n\nOne never knows how these things are done or how long they take: I was\nback on the rock--without the rifle--and had the water out of my eyes in\ntime to see the crocodile roll helplessly by, six feet away, with Jock\nbehind making excited but ridiculously futile attempts to get hold of\nthe tail; Jim--swimming, plunging and blowing like a maddened hippo--\nformed the tail of the procession, which was headed by my water-logged\nhat floating heavily a yard or so in front of the crocodile.\n\nWhile a crowd of yelling niggers under the generalship of Jim were\nlanding the crocodile, I had time to do some diving, and managed to fish\nout my rifle.\n\nMy Sunday change was wasted.  But we got the old crocodile; and that was\nsomething, after all.\n\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY THREE.\n\nTHE FIGHTING BABOON.\n\nOn the way to Lydenburg, not many treks from Paradise Camp, we were\noutspanned for the day.  Those were the settled parts; on the hills and\nin the valleys about us were the widely scattered workings of the gold\ndiggers or the white tents of occasional prospectors.\n\nThe place was a well-known and much-frequented public outspan, and a\nfair-sized wayside store marked its importance.  After breakfast we went\nto the store to `swap' news with the men on the spot and a couple of\nhorsemen who had offsaddled there.\n\nThere were several other houses of sorts; they were rough wattle and\ndaub erections which were called houses, as an acknowledgment of\npretensions expressed in the rectangular shape and corrugated iron roof.\nOne of these belonged to Seedling, the Field Cornet and only official\nin the district.  He was the petty local Justice who was supposed to\nadminister minor laws, collect certain revenues and taxes, and issue\npasses.  The salary was nominal, but the position bristled with\nopportunities for one who was not very particular; and the then occupant\nof the office seemed well enough pleased with the arrangement, whatever\nthe public may have thought of it.\n\nHe was neither popular nor trusted: many tales of great harshness and\ninjustice to the natives, and of corruption and favouritism in dealing\nwith the whites, added to habitual drunkenness and uncertain temper,\nmade a formidable tally in the account against him; he was also a bully\nand a coward, and all knew it; but unfortunately he was the law--as it\nstood for us!\n\nSeedling, although an official of the Boer Government, was an\nEnglishman; there were several of them on the goldfields in those days,\nand for the most part, they were good fellows and good officials--this\none was an exception.  We all knew him personally: he was effusively\nfriendly; and we suffered him and--paid for the drinks.  That was in his\npublic capacity: in his private capacity he was the owner of the\nfighting baboon of evil and cruel repute.\n\nIf ever fate's instruments moved unconscious of their mission and the\npart they were to play, it is certain that Jock and Jim Makokel' did so\nthat day--the day that was the beginning of Seedling's fall and end.\n\nIt is not very clear how the trouble began.  We had been sitting on the\nlittle store-counter and talking for over an hour, a group of half a\ndozen, swapping off the news of the goldfields and the big world against\nthat from Delagoa and the Bushveld; Seedling had joined us early and, as\nusual, began the morning with drinks.  We were not used to that on the\nroad or out hunting; indeed, we rarely took any drink, and most of us\nnever touched a drop except in the towns.  The transport-rider had\nopportunities which might easily become temptations--the load often\nconsisting of liquor, easy to broach and only to be paid for at the end\nof the trip; but we had always before us the lesson of the failures.\nApart from this, however, we did not take liquor, because we could not\nwork as well or last as long, run as fast or shoot as straight, if we\ndid.  And that was reason enough!\n\nWe had one round of drinks which was `called' by one of the horsemen,\nand then, to return the compliment, another round called by one of us.\nA few minutes later Seedling announced effusively that it was his\n`shout.'  But it was only ten in the morning, and those who had taken\nspirits had had enough, indeed, several had only taken a sip of the\nsecond round in order to comply with a stupid and vicious custom; I\nwould not and could not attack another bottle of sour gingerbeer; and\nthus Seedling's round was reduced to himself and the proprietor.  No man\nhowever thirsty would drink alone in those days--it was taken a mark of\nmeanness or evidence of `soaking'--and the proprietor had to be ready at\nany time to `take one for the good of the house.'\n\nA quarter of an hour passed, and Seedling, who had said nothing since\nhis `shout' was declined, turned away and strolled out, with hands\nthrust deep in the pockets of his riding breeches and a long heavy\nsjambok dangling from one wrist.  There was silence as he moved through\nthe doorway, and when the square patch of sunlight on the earth floor\nwas again unbroken the man behind the counter remarked,--\n\n\"Too long between drinks for him!  Gone for a pull at the private\nbottle.\"\n\n\"Is that how it's going?\"\n\n\"Yah! all day long.  Drinks here as long as any one'll call, but don't\ndo much shoutin' on his own, I tell you!  That's the first time I seen\nhim call for a week.  He wanted to get you chaps on the go, I reckon.\nHe'll be wrong all day to-day.  I know him!\"\n\n\"Cost him two bob for nothing, eh!\"\n\n\"Well, it ain't so much that; ye see, he reckoned you'd all shout your\nturns, and drinks'd come regular; but he sees you're not on.  Twig?  I'm\nnot complainin' mind you--Lord no!  He don't pay any way!  It's all\n`chalked up' for him, an' I got to wipe it off the slate when the next\nloads comes and he collects my customs' duties.  His liquor's took him\nwrong to-day--you'll see!\"\n\nWe did see; and that before very long.  We had forgotten Seedling, and\nwere hearing all about the new finds reported from Barberton district,\nwhen one of the waggon-boys came running into the store calling to me by\nmy kaffir name and shouting excitedly, \"Baas, Baas! come quickly!  The\nbaboon has got Jock: it will kill him!\"\n\nI had known all about the vicious brute, and had often heard of\nSeedling's fiendish delight in arranging fights or enticing dogs up to\nattack it for the pleasure of seeing the beast kill the over-matched\ndogs.  The dog had no chance at all, for the baboon remained out of\nreach in his house on the pole as long as it chose, if the dog was too\nbig or the opening not a good one, and made its rush when it would tell\nbest.  But apart from this the baboon was an exceptionally big and\npowerful one, and it is very doubtful if any dog could have tackled it\nsuccessfully in an open fight.  The creature was as clever as even they\ncan be; its enormous jaws and teeth were quite equal to the biggest\ndog's, and it had the advantage of four `hands.'  Its tactics in a fight\nwere quite simple and most effective; with its front feet it caught the\ndog by the ears or neck, holding the head so that there was no risk of\nbeing bitten, and then gripping the body lower down with the hind feet,\nit tore lumps out of the throat, breast, and stomach--pushing with all\nfour feet and tearing with the terrible teeth.  The poor dogs were\nhopelessly out-matched.\n\nI did not see the beginning of Jock's encounter, but the boys' stories\npieced together told everything.  It appears that when Seedling left the\nstore he went in to his own hut and remained there some little time; on\ncoming out again he strolled over to the baboon's pole about half-way\nbetween the two houses and began teasing it, throwing pebbles at it to\nsee it dodge and duck behind the pole, and then flicking at it with the\nsjambok, amused by its frightened and angry protests.  While he was\ndoing this, Jock, who had followed me to the store, strolled out again\nmaking his way towards the waggons.  He was not interested in our talk;\nhe had twice been accidentally trodden on by men stepping back as he lay\nstretched out on the floor behind them; and doubtless he felt that it\nwas no place for him: his deafness prevented him from hearing movements,\nexcept such as caused vibration in the ground, and, poor old fellow, he\nwas always at a disadvantage in houses and towns.\n\nThe baboon had then taken refuge in its box on top of the pole to escape\nthe sjambok, and when Seedling saw Jock come out he commenced whistling\nand calling softly to him.  Jock, of course, heard nothing: he may have\nresponded mildly to the friendly overtures conveyed by the extended hand\nand patting of legs, or more probably simply took the nearest way to the\nwaggon where he might sleep in peace, since there was nothing else to\ndo.  What the boys agree on is that as Jock passed the pole Seedling\npatted and held him, at the same time calling the baboon, and then gave\nthe dog a push which did not quite roll him over but upset his balance;\nand Jock, recovering himself, naturally jumped round and faced Seedling,\nstanding almost directly between him and the baboon.  He could not hear\nthe rattle of the chain on the box and pole, and saw nothing of the\ncharging brute, and it was the purest accident that the dog stood a few\ninches out of reach.  The baboon--chained by the neck instead of the\nwaist, because it used to bite through all loin straps--made its rush,\nbut the chain brought it up before its hands could reach Jock and threw\nthe hind quarters round with such force against him that he was sent\nrolling yards away.\n\nI can well believe that this second attack from a different and wholly\nunexpected quarter thoroughly roused him, and can picture how he turned\nto face it.\n\nIt was at this moment that Jim first noticed what was going on.  The\nother boys had not expected anything when Seedling called the dog, and\nthey were taken completely by surprise by what followed.  Jim would have\nknown what to expect: his kraal was in the neighbourhood; he knew\nSeedling well, and had already suffered in fines and confiscations at\nhis hands; he also knew about the baboon; but he was ignorant, just as I\nwas, of the fact that Seedling had left his old place across the river\nand come to live in the new hut, bringing his pet with him.\n\nIt was the hoarse threatening shout of the baboon as it jumped at Jock,\nas much as the exclamations of the boys, that roused Jim.  He knew\ninstantly what was on, and grabbing a stick made a dash to save the dog,\nwith the other boys following him.\n\nWhen Jock was sent spinning in the dust the baboon recovered itself\nfirst, and standing up on its hind legs reached out its long ungainly\narms towards him, and let out a shout of defiance.  Jock regaining his\nfeet dashed in, jumped aside, feinted again and again, as he had learnt\nto do when big horns swished at him; and he kept out of reach just as he\nhad done ever since the duiker taught him the use of its hoofs.  He knew\nwhat to do, just as he had known how to swing the porcupine: the dog--\nfor all the fighting fury that possessed him--took the measure of the\nchain and kept outside it.  Round and round he flew, darting in, jumping\nback, snapping and dodging, but never getting right home.  The baboon\nwas as clever as he was: at times it jumped several feet in the air,\nstraight up, in the hope that Jock would run underneath; at others, it\nwould make a sudden lunge with the long arms, or a more surprising reach\nout with the hind legs to grab him.  Then the baboon began gradually to\nreduce its circle, leaving behind it slack chain enough for a spring;\nbut Jock was not to be drawn.  In cleverness they were well-matched--\nneither scored in attack; neither made or lost a point.\n\nWhen Jim rushed up to save Jock, it was with eager anxious shouts of the\ndog's name that warned Seedling and made him turn; and as the boy ran\nforward the white man stepped out to stop him.\n\n\"Leave the dog alone!\" he shouted, pale with anger.\n\n\"Baas, Baas, the dog will be killed,\" Jim called excitedly, as he tried\nto get round; but the white man made a jump towards him, and with a\nbackhand slash of the sjambok struck him across the face, shouting at\nhim again:\n\n\"Leave him, I tell you.\"\n\nJim jumped back, thrusting out his stick to guard another vicious cut;\nand so it went on with alternate slash and guard, and the big Zulu\ndanced round with nimble bounds, guarding, dodging, or bearing the\nsjambok cuts, to save the dog.  Seedling was mad with rage; for who had\never heard of a nigger standing up to a Field Cornet?  Still Jim would\nnot give way; he kept trying to get in front of Jock, to head him off\nthe fight, and all the while shouting to the other boys to call me.  But\nSeedling was the Field Cornet, and not one of them dared to move against\nhim.\n\nAt last the baboon, finding that Jock would not come on, tried other\ntactics; it made a sudden retreat and, rushing for the pole, hid behind\nit as for protection.  Jock made a jump and the baboon leaped out to\nmeet him, but the dog stopped at the chain's limit, and the baboon--just\nas in the first dash of all--overshot the mark; it was brought up by the\njerk of the collar, and for one second sprawled on its back.  That was\nthe first chance for Jock, and he took it.  With one spring he was in;\nhis head shot between the baboon's hind legs, and with his teeth buried\nin the soft stomach he lay back and pulled--pulled for dear life, as he\nhad pulled and dragged on the legs of wounded game; tugged as he had\ntugged at the porcupine; held on, as he had held when the koodoo bull\nwrenched and strained every bone and muscle in his body.\n\nThen came the sudden turn!  As Jock fastened on to the baboon, dragging\nthe chain taut while the screaming brute struggled on its back, Seedling\nstood for a second irresolute, and then with a stride forward raised his\nsjambok to strike the dog.  That was too much for Jim; he made a spring\nin and grasping the raised sjambok with his left hand held Seedling\npowerless, while in his right the boy raised his stick on guard.\n\n\"Let him fight, Baas!  You said it!  Let the dog fight!\" he panted,\nhoarse with excitement.\n\nThe white man, livid with fury, struggled and kicked, but the wrist loop\nof his sjambok held him prisoner and he could do nothing.\n\nThat was the moment when a panic-stricken boy plucked up courage enough\nto call me; and that was the scene we saw as we ran out of the little\nshop.  Jim would not strike the white man: but his face was a muddy\ngrey, and it was written there that he would rather die than give up the\ndog.\n\nBefore I reached them it was clear to us all what had happened; Jim was\nprotesting to Seedling and at the same time calling to me; it was a\njumble, but a jumble eloquent enough for us, and all intelligible.\nJim's excited gabble was addressed with reckless incoherence to\nSeedling, to me, and to Jock!\n\n\"You threw him in; you tried to kill him.  He did it.  It was not the\ndog.  Kill him, Jock, kill him.  Leave him, let him fight.  You said\nit--Let him fight!  Kill him, Jock!  Kill!  Kill!  Kill!\"\n\nThen Seedling did the worst thing possible; he turned on me with,--\n\n\"Call off your dog, I tell you, or I'll shoot him and your nigger too!\"\n\n\"We'll see about that!  They can fight it out now,\" and I took the\nsjambok from Jim's hand and cut it from the white man's wrist.  \"Now!\nStand back!\"  And he stood back.\n\nThe baboon was quite helpless.  Powerful as the brute was, and\nformidable as were the arms and gripping feet, it had no chance while\nJock could keep his feet and had strength to drag and hold the chain\ntight.  The collar was choking it, and the grip on the stomach--the\nbaboon's own favourite and most successful device--was fatal.\n\nI set my teeth, and thought of the poor helpless dogs that had been\ndecoyed in and treated the same way.  Jim danced about, the white seam\nof froth on his lips, hoarse gusts of encouragement bursting from him as\nhe leant over Jock, and his whole body vibrating like an over-heated\nboiler.  And Jock hung on in grim earnest, the silence on his side\nbroken only by grunting efforts as the deadly tug--tug--tug went on.\nEach pull caused his feet to slip a little on the smooth worn ground;\nbut each time he set them back again, and the grunting tugs went on.\n\n------------------------------------------------------------------------\n\nIt was not justice to call Jock off; but I did it.  The cruel brute\ndeserved killing, but the human look and cries and behaviour of the\nbaboon were too sickening; and Seedling went into his hut without even a\nlook at his stricken champion.\n\nJock stood off, with his mouth open from ear to ear and his red tongue\ndangling, blood-stained and panting, but with eager feet ever on the\nmove shifting from spot to spot, ears going back and forward, and eyes--\nnow on the baboon and now on me--pleading for the sign to go in again.\n\nBefore evening the baboon was dead.\n\n------------------------------------------------------------------------\n\nThe day's excitement was too much for Jim.  After singing and dancing\nhimself into a frenzy round Jock, after shouting the whole story of the\nfight in violent and incessant gabble over and over again to those who\nhad witnessed it, after making every ear ring and every head swim with\nhis mad din, he grabbed his sticks once more and made off for one of the\nkraals, there to find drink for which he thirsted body and soul.\n\nIn the afternoon the sudden scattering of the inhabitants of a small\nkraal on the hillside opposite, and some lusty shouting, drew attention\nthat way.  At distances of from two to five hundred yards from the huts\nthere stood figures, singly or grouped in twos and threes, up to the\nhighest slopes; they formed a sort of crescent above the kraal; and on\nthe lower side of it, hiding under the bank of the river, were a dozen\nor more whose heads only were visible.  They were all looking towards\nthe kraal like a startled herd of buck.  Now and then a burly figure\nwould dart out from the huts with wild bounds and blood-curdling yells,\nand the watchers on that side would scatter like chaff and flee for dear\nlife up the mountain side or duck instantly and disappear in the river.\nThen he would stalk back again and disappear, to repeat the performance\non another side a little later on.\n\nIt was all painfully clear to me.  Jim had broken out.\n\nWe were loaded for Lydenburg--another week's trekking through and over\nthe mountains--and as we intended coming back the same way a fortnight\nlater I decided at once to leave Jim at his kraal, which was only a\nlittle further on, and pick him up on the return journey.\n\nI nearly always paid him off in live stock or sheep: he had good wages,\nand for many months at a time would draw no money; the boy was a\nsplendid worker and as true as steel; so that, in spite of all the awful\nworry I had a soft spot for Jim and had taken a good deal of trouble on\nhis account.  He got his pay at the end of the trip or the season, but\nnot in cash.  It was invested for him--greatly to his disgust at the\ntime, I am bound to say--in live stock, so that he would not be able to\nsquander it in drink or be robbed of it while incapable.\n\nJim's gloomy dignity was colossal when it came to squaring up and I\ninvited him to state what he wished me to buy for him.  To be treated\nlike an irresponsible child; to be chaffed and cheerfully warned by me;\nto be met by the giggles and squirts of laughter of the other boys, for\nwhom he had the most profound contempt; to see the respectable Sam\ncounting out with awkward eager hands and gleaming eyes the good red\ngold, while he, Makokela the Zulu, was treated like a piccanin--Ugh!  It\nwas horrible!  Intolerable!\n\nJim would hold aloof in injured gloomy silence, not once looking at me,\nbut standing sideways and staring stonily past me into the far distance,\nand not relaxing for a second the expression of profound displeasure on\nhis weather-beaten face.  No joke or chaff, no question or reason, would\nmove him to even look my way.  All he would do was, now and again, give\na click of disgust, a quick shake of the head, and say: \"Aug!\nAng-a-funa!\"  (\"I do not desire it!\")\n\nWe had the same fight over and over again, but I always won in the end.\nOnce, when he would not make up his mind what to buy, I offered him\ninstead of cash two of the worst oxen in his span at the highest\npossible valuation, and the effect was excellent; but the usual lever\nwas to announce that if he could not make his choice and bargain for\nhimself I would do it for him.  In the end he invariably gave way and\nbargained with his kaffir friends for a deal, venting on them by his\nhard driving and brow-beating some of the accumulated indignation which\nought to have gone elsewhere.\n\nWhen it was all over Jim recovered rapidly, and at parting time there\nwas the broadest of grins and a stentorian shout of \"Hlala Kahle!\nInkos!\" and Jim went off with his springy walk, swinging his sticks and\njabbering his thoughts aloud, evidently about me, for every now and\nagain he would spring lightly into the air, twirl the stick, and shout a\ndeep throated \"Inkos!\" full of the joy of living.  A boy going home for\nhis holiday!\n\nThis time Jim was too fully wound up to be dealt with as before, and I\nsimply turned him off, telling him to come to the camp in a fortnight's\ntime.\n\n------------------------------------------------------------------------\n\nI was a day behind the waggons returning, and riding up to the camp\ntowards midday found Jim waiting for me.  He looked ill and shrunken,\nwrapped in an old coat and squatting against the wall of the little hut.\nAs I passed he rose slowly and gave his \"Sakubona!  Inkos!\" with that\ncurious controlled air by which the kaffir manages to suggest a kind of\nfatalist resignation or indifference touched with disgust.  There was\nsomething wrong; so I rode past without stopping--one learns from them\nto find out how the land lies before doing anything.\n\nIt was a bad story, almost as bad as one would think possible where\ncivilised beings are concerned.  Jim's own story lacked certain details\nof which he was necessarily ignorant, it also omitted the fact that had\nbeen drunk; but in the main it was quite true.\n\nThis is what happened, as gleaned from several sources: several days\nafter our departure Jim went down to the store again and raised some\nliquor; he was not fighting, but he was noisy, and was the centre of a\nsmall knot of shouting, arguing boys near the store when Seedling\nreturned after a two days' absence.  No doubt it was unfortunate that\nthe very first thing he saw on his return was the boy who had defied him\nand who was the cause of his humiliation; and that that boy should by\nhis behaviour give the slenderest excuse for interference was in the\nlast degree unlucky.  Seedling's mind was made up from the moment he set\neyes on Jim.  Throwing the reins over his horse's head he walked into\nthe excited gabbling knot, all unconscious of his advent, and laid about\nhim with the sjambok, scattering and silencing them instantly; he then\ntook Jim by the wrist saying, \"I want you\"; he called to one of his own\nboys to bring a reim, and leading Jim over to the side of the store tied\nhim up to the horse rail with arms at full stretch.  Taking out his\nknife he cut the boy's clothing down the back so that it fell away in\ntwo halves in front of him; then he took off his own coat and flogged\nthe boy with his sjambok.\n\nI would like to tell all that happened for one reason: it would explain\nthe murderous man-hunting feeling that possessed us when we heard it!\nBut it was too cruel: let it be!  Only one thing to show the spirit:\ntwice during the flogging Seedling stopped to go into the store for a\ndrink.\n\nJim crawled home to find his kraal ransacked and deserted, and his wives\nand children driven off in panic.  In addition to the flogging Seedling\nhad, in accordance with his practice, imposed fines far beyond the boy's\nmeans in cash, so as to provide an excuse for seizing what he wanted.\nThe police boys had raided the kraal; and the cattle and goats--his only\nproperty--were gone.\n\nHe told it all in a dull monotone: for the time the life and fire were\ngone out of him; but he was not cowed, not broken.  There was a curl of\ncontempt on his mouth and in his tone that whipped the white skin on my\nown back and made it all a disgrace unbearable.  That this should be the\nreward for his courageous defence of Jock seemed too awful.  We went\ninside to talk it over and make our plans.  The waggons should go on\nnext day as if nothing had happened, Jim remaining in one of the half\ntents or elsewhere out of sight of passers-by.  I was to ride into\nLydenburg and lodge information--for in such a case the authorities\nwould surely act.  That was the best, or at any rate the first, course\nto be tried.\n\nThere was no difficulty about the warrant, for there were many counts in\nthe indictment against Seedling; but even so worthless a brute as that\nseemed to have one friend, or perhaps an accomplice, to give him\nwarning, and before we reached his quarters with the police he had\ncleared on horseback for Portuguese territory, taking with him a led\nhorse.\n\nWe got most of Jim's cattle back for him--which he seemed to consider\nthe main thing--but we were sorely disgusted at the man's escape.\n\nThat was the year of the `rush.'  Thousands of new-comers poured into\nthe country on the strength of the gold discoveries; materials and\nprovisions of all kinds were almost unprocurable and stood at famine\nprices; and consequently we--the transport-riders--reaped a golden\nharvest.  Never had there been such times; waggons and spans were paid\nfor in single trips; and so great was the demand for supplies that some\nrefused transport and bought their own goods, which they re-sold on the\ngoldfields at prices twice as profitable as the highest rates of\ntransport.\n\nThus the days lost in the attempt to catch Seedling were valuable days.\nThe season was limited, and as early rains might cut us off, a few days\nthrown away might mean the loss of a whole trip.  We hurried down,\ntherefore, for the Bay, doing little hunting that time.\n\nNear the Crocodile on our way down we heard from men coming up that\nSeedling had been there some days before but that, hearing we were on\nthe way down and had sworn to shoot him, he had ridden on to Komati,\nleaving one horse behind bad with horse-sickness.  The report about\nshooting him was, of course, ridiculous--probably his own imagination--\nbut it was some comfort to know that he was in such a state of terror\nthat his own fancies were hunting him down.\n\nAt Komati we learned that he had stayed three days at the store of that\nGoanese murderer, Antonio--the same Antonio who on one occasion had\ntried to drug and hand over to the enemy two of our men who had got into\ntrouble defending themselves against raiding natives; the same Antonio\nwho afterwards made an ill-judged attempt to stab one Mickey O'Connor in\na Barberton canteen and happily got brained with a bottle of his own\ndoctored spirit for his pains.\n\nAntonio suspecting something wrong about a white man who came on\nhorseback and dawdled aimlessly three days at Komati Drift, going\nindoors whenever a stranger appeared, wormed the secret out with liquor\nand sympathy; and when he had got most of Seedling's money out of him,\nby pretence of bribing the Portuguese officials and getting news, made a\nbold bid for the rest by saying that a warrant was out for him in\nDelagoa and he must on no account go on.  The evil-looking half-caste no\ndoubt hoped to get the horse saddle and bridle, as well as the cash, and\nwas quite prepared to drug Seedling when the time came, and slip him\nquietly into the Komati at night where the crocodiles would take care of\nthe evidence.\n\nAntonio, however, overshot the mark; Seedling who knew all about him,\ntook fright, saddled up and bolted up the river meaning to make for the\nLebombo, near the Tembe Drift, where Bob McNab and his merry comrades\nran free of Governments and were a law unto themselves.  It was no place\nfor a nervous man, but Seedling had no choice, and he went on.  He had\nliquor in his saddle bags and food for several days; but he was not used\nto the bush, and at the end of the first day he had lost his way and was\nbeyond the river district where the kaffirs lived.\n\nSo much is believed, though not positively known; at any rate he left\nthe last kraal in those parts about noon, and was next heard of two days\nlater at a kraal under the Lebombo.  There he learnt that the Black\nUmbelusi, which it would be necessary to swim--as Snowball and Tsetse\nhad done--lay before him, and that it was yet a great distance to\nSebougwaans, and even then he would be only half-way to Bob's.  Seedling\ncould not face it alone, and turned back for the nearest store.\n\nThe natives said that before leaving the kraal he bought beer from them,\nbut did not want food; for he looked sick; he was red and swollen in the\nface; and his eyes were wild; the horse was weak and also looked sick,\nbeing very thin and empty; but they showed him the footpath over the\nhills which would take him to Tom's--a white man's store on the road to\nDelagoa--and he left them!  That was Tom Barnett's at Piscene, where we\nalways stopped; for Tom was a good friend of ours.\n\nThat was how we came to meet Seedling again.  He had made a loop of a\nhundred and fifty miles in four days in his efforts to avoid us; but he\nwas waiting for us when we arrived at Tom Barnett's.  We who had hurried\non to catch him, believing that the vengeance of justice depended on us,\nforgot that it has been otherwise decreed.\n\nTom stood in the doorway of his store as we walked up--five feet one in\nhis boots, but every inch of it a man--with his hands resting idly on\nhis hips and a queer smile on his face as he nodded welcome.\n\n\"Did a white man come here on horseback during the last few days from\nthe Drift?\"\n\n\"No!\"\n\n\"On foot?\"\n\n\"No, not the whole way.\"\n\n\"Is he here now?\"  Tom nodded.\n\n\"You know about him, Tom?\"\n\n\"Seedling! the chap you're after, isn't it?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" we answered, lowering our voices.  Tom looked from one to the\nother with the same queer smile, and then making a move to let us into\nthe store said quietly: \"He won't clear, boys; he's dead!\"  Some kaffirs\ncoming along the footpath from the 'Bombo had found the horse dead of\nhorse-sickness half a day away, and further on--only a mile or so from\nthe store--the rider lying on his back in the sun, dying of thirst.  He\ndied before they got him in.  He was buried under a big fig tree where\nanother and more honoured grave was made later on.\n\n------------------------------------------------------------------------\n\nJim sat by himself the whole evening and never spoke a word.\n\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.\n\nTHE LAST TREK.\n\nIt was Pettigrew's Road that brought home to me, and to others, the\nwisdom of the old transport-riders' maxim: `Take no risks.'  We all knew\nthat there were `fly' belts on the old main road but we rushed these at\nnight, for we knew enough of the tsetse fly to avoid it; however the\ndiscovery of the new road to Barberton, a short cut with plenty of water\nand grass, which offered the chance of working an extra trip into the\nshort Delagoa season, tempted me, among others, to take a risk.  We had\nseen no `fly' when riding through to spy out the land, and again on the\ntrip down with empty waggons all had seemed to be well; but I had good\nreason afterwards to recall that hurried trip down and the night spent\nat Low's Creek.  It was a lovely moonlight night, cool and still, and\nthe grass was splendid; after many weeks of poor feeding and drought the\ncattle revelled in the land of plenty.  We had timed our treks so as to\nget through the suspected parts of the road at night, believing that the\nfly did not trouble after dark, and thus we were that night outspanned\nin the worst spot of all--a tropical garden of clear streams,\ntree-ferns, foliage plants, mosses, maidenhair, and sweet grass!  I\nmoved among the cattle myself, watching them feed greedily and waiting\nto see them satisfied before inspanning again to trek through the night\nto some higher and more open ground.  I noticed then that their tails\nwere rather busy.  At first it seemed the usual accompaniment of a good\nfeed, an expression of satisfaction; after a while, however, the\nswishing became too vigorous for this, and when heads began to swing\nround and legs also were made use of, it seemed clear that something was\nworrying them.  The older hands were so positive that at night cattle\nwere safe from fly, that it did not even then occur to me to suspect\nanything seriously wrong.  Weeks passed by, and although the cattle\nbecame poorer, it was reasonable enough to put it down to the\nexceptional drought.\n\nIt was late in the season when we loaded up for the last time in Delagoa\nand ploughed our way through the Matolla swamp and the heavy sands at\nPiscene; but late as it was, there was no sign of rain, and the rain\nthat we usually wanted to avoid would have been very welcome then.  The\nroads were all blistering stones or powdery dust, and it was cruel work\nfor man and beast.  The heat was intense, and there was no breeze; the\ndust moved along slowly apace with us in a dense cloud--men, waggons,\nand animals, all toned to the same hue; and the poor oxen toiling slowly\nalong drew in the finely-powdered stuff at every breath.  At the outspan\nthey stood about exhausted and panting, with rings and lines of brown\nmarking where the moisture from nostrils, eyes and mouths had caught the\ndust and turned it into mud.  At Matolla Poort, where the Lebombo Range\nruns low, where the polished black rocks shone like anvils, where the\nstones and baked earth scorched the feet of man and beast to aching, the\nworld was like an oven; the heat came from above, below, around--a\nthousand glistening surfaces flashing back with intensity the sun's\nfierce rays.  And there, at Matolla Poort, the big pool had given out!\n\nOur standby was gone!  There, in the deep cleft in the rocks where the\nfeeding spring, cool and constant, had trickled down a smooth black rock\nbeneath another overhanging slab, and where ferns and mosses had\nclustered in one little spot in all the miles of blistering rocks, there\nwas nothing left but mud and slime.  The water was as green and thick as\npea-soup; filth of all kinds lay in it and on it; half a dozen rotting\ncarcases stuck in the mud round the one small wet spot where the pool\nhad been--just where they fell and died; the coat had dropped away from\nsome, and mats of hair, black-brown and white, helped to thicken the\ngreen water.  But we drank it.  Sinking a handkerchief where the water\nlooked thinnest and making a little well into which the moisture slowly\nfiltered, we drank it greedily.\n\nThe next water on the road was Komati River, but the cattle were too\nweak to reach it in one trek, and remembering another pool off the\nroad--a small lagoon found by accident when out hunting the year\nbefore--we moved on that night out on to the flats and made through the\nbush for several miles to look for water and grass.\n\nWe found the place just after dawn.  There was a string of half a dozen\npools ringed with yellow-plumed reeds--like a bracelet of sapphires set\nin gold--deep deep pools of beautiful water in the midst of acres and\nacres of rich buffalo grass.  It was too incredibly good!\n\nI was trekking alone that trip, the only white man there, and--tired out\nby the all-night's work, the long ride, and the searching in the bush\nfor the lagoon--I had gone to sleep after seeing the cattle to the water\nand grass.  Before midday I was back among them again; some odd\nmovements struck a chord of memory, and the night at Low's Creek flashed\nback.  Tails were swishing freely, and the bullock nearest me kicked up\nsharply at its side and swung its head round to brush something away.  I\nmoved closer up to see what was causing the trouble: in a few minutes I\nheard a thin sing of wings, different from a mosquito's, and there\nsettled on my shirt a grey fly, very like and not much larger than a\ncommon house-fly, whose wings folded over like a pair of scissors.  That\nwas the \"mark of the beast.\"  I knew then why this oasis had been left\nby transport-rider and trekker, as nature made it, untrodden and\nuntouched.\n\nNot a moment was lost in getting away from the `fly.'  But the mischief\nwas already done; the cattle must have been bitten at Low's Creek weeks\nbefore, and again that morning during the time I slept; and it was clear\nthat, not drought and poverty, but `fly' was the cause of their\nweakness.  After the first rains they would begin to die, and the right\nthing to do, now was to press on as fast as possible and deliver the\nloads.  Barberton was booming and short of supplies and the rates were\nthe highest ever paid; but I had done better still, having bought my own\ngoods, and the certain profit looked a fortune to me.  Even if all the\ncattle became unfit for use or died, the loads would pay for everything\nand the right course therefore was to press on; for delay would mean\nlosing both cattle and loads--all I had in the world--and starting again\npenniless with the years of hard work thrown away.\n\nSo the last hard struggle began.  And it was work and puzzle day and\nnight, without peace or rest; trying to nurse the cattle in their daily\nfailing strength, and yet to push them for all they could do; watching\nthe sky cloud over every afternoon, promising rain that never came, and\nnot knowing whether to call it promise or threat; for although rain\nwould bring grass and water to save the cattle, it also meant death to\nthe fly-bitten.\n\nWe crossed the Komati with three spans--forty-four oxen--to a waggon,\nfor the drift was deep in two places and the weakened cattle could not\nkeep their feet.  It was a hard day, and by nightfall it was easy to\npick out the oxen who would not last out a week.  That night Zole lay\ndown and did not get up again--Zole the little fat schoolboy, always out\nof breath, always good-tempered and quiet, as tame as a pet dog.\n\nHe was only the first to go; day by day others followed.  Some were only\ncattle: others were old friends and comrades on many a trek.  The two\nbig after-oxen Achmoed and Bakir went down early; the Komati Drift had\nover-tried them, and the weight and jolting of the heavy disselboom on\nthe bad roads finished them off.  These were the two inseparables who\nworked and grazed, walked and slept, side by side--never more than a few\nyards apart day or night since the day they became yoke-fellows.  They\ndied on consecutive days.\n\nBut the living wonder of that last trek was still old Zwaartland the\nfront ox!  With his steady sober air, perfect understanding of his work,\nand firm clean buck-like tread, he still led the front span.  Before we\nreached the Crocodile his mate gave in--worn to death by the ebbing of\nhis own strength and by the steady indomitable courage of his comrade.\nOld Zwaartland pulled on; but my heart sank as I looked at him and noted\nthe slightly `staring' coat, the falling flanks, the tread less sure and\nbrisk, and a look in his eyes that made me think he knew what was coming\nbut would do his best.\n\nThe gallant-hearted old fellow held on.  One after another we tried with\nhim in the lead, half a dozen or more; but he wore them all down.  In\nthe dongas and spruits, where the crossings were often very bad and\nsteep, the waggons would stick for hours, and the wear and strain on the\nexhausted cattle was killing: it was bad enough for the man who drove\nthem.  To see old Zwaartland then holding his ground, never for one\nmoment turning or wavering while the others backed jibbed and swayed and\ndragged him staggering backwards, made one's heart ache.  The end was\nsure: flesh and blood will not last for ever; the stoutest heart can be\nbroken.\n\nThe worst of it was that with all the work and strain we accomplished\nless than we used to do before in a quarter of the time.  Distances\nformerly covered in one trek took three, four, and even five now.\nWater, never too plentiful in certain parts, was sadly diminished by the\ndrought, and it sometimes took us three or even four treks to get from\nwater to water.  Thus we had at times to drive the oxen back to the last\nplace or on to the next one for their drinks, and by the time the poor\nbeasts got back to the waggons to begin their trek they had done nearly\nas much as they were able to do.\n\nAnd trouble begot trouble, as usual!  Sam the respectable, who had drawn\nall his pay in Delagoa, gave up after one hard day and deserted me.  He\nsaid that the hand of the Lord had smitten me and mine, and great\nmisfortune would come to all; so he left in the dark at Crocodile Drift,\ntaking one of the leaders with him, and joined some waggons making for\nLydenburg.  The work was too hard for him; it was late in the season; he\nfeared the rains and fever; and he had no pluck or loyalty, and cared\nfor no one but himself.\n\nI was left with three leaders and two drivers to manage four waggons.\nIt was Jim who told me of Sam's desertion.  He had the cross, defiant,\npre-occupied look of old; but there was also something of satisfaction\nin his air as he walked up to me and stood to deliver the great\nvindication of his own unerring judgment:\n\n\"Sam has deserted you and taken his voorlooper.\"  He jerked the words\nout at me, speaking in Zulu.\n\nI said nothing.  It was just about Sam's form; it annoyed but did not\nsurprise me.  Jim favoured me with a hard searching look, a subdued\ngrunt, and a click expressive of things he could not put into words, and\nwithout another word he turned and walked back towards his waggon.  But\nhalf-way to it he broke silence: facing me once more, he thumped his\nchest and hurled at me in mixed Zulu and English: \"I said so!  Sam lead\na Bible.  Sam no good.  Umph!  M'Shangaan!  I said so!  I always said\nso!\"\n\nWhen Jim helped me to inspan Sam's waggon, he did it to an accompaniment\nof Zulu imprecations which only a Zulu could properly appreciate.  They\nwere quite `above my head,' but every now and then I caught one sentence\nrepeated like the responses in a litany: \"I'll kill that Shangaan when I\nsee him again!\"\n\nAt Lion Spruit there was more bad luck.  Lions had been troublesome\nthere in former years, but for a couple of seasons nothing had been seen\nof them.  Their return was probably due to the fact that, because of the\ndrought and consequent failure of other waters, the game on which they\npreyed had moved down towards the river.  At any rate, they returned\nunexpectedly and we had one bad night when the cattle were unmanageable,\nand their nerves all on edge.  The herd boys had seen spoor in the\nafternoon; at dusk we heard the distant roaring, and later on, the\nnearer and more ominous grunting.  I fastened Jock up in the tent-waggon\nlest the sight of him should prove too tempting; he was bristling like a\nhedgehog and constantly working out beyond the cattle, glaring and\ngrowling incessantly towards the bush.  We had four big fires at the\nfour corners of the outspan, and no doubt this saved a bad stampede, for\nin the morning we found a circle of spoor where the lions had walked\nround and round the outspan.  There were scores of footprints--the\ntracks of at least four or five animals.\n\nIn the Bushveld the oxen were invariably tied up at night, picketed to\nthe trek-chain, each pair at its yoke ready to be inspanned for the\nearly morning trek.  Ordinarily the weight of the chain and yokes was\nsufficient to keep them in place, but when there were lions about, and\nthe cattle liable to be scared and all to sway off together in the same\ndirection, we took the extra precaution of pegging down the chain and\nanchoring the front yoke to a tree or stake.  We had a lot of trouble\nthat night, as one of the lions persistently took his stand to windward\nof the cattle to scare them with his scent.  We knew well enough when he\nwas there, although unable to see anything, as all the oxen would face\nup wind, staring with bulging eyeballs in that direction and braced up\ntense with excitement.  If one of them made a sudden move, the whole lot\njumped in response and swayed off down wind away from the danger,\ndragging the gear with them and straining until the heavy waggons\nyielded to the tug.  We had to run out and then drive them up again to\nstay the stampede.  It is a favourite device of lions, when tackling\ncamps and outspans, for one of them to go to windward so that the\nterrified animals on winding him may stampede in the opposite direction\nwhere the other lions are lying in wait.\n\nTwo oxen broke away that night and were never seen again.  Once I saw a\nlow light-coloured form steal across the road, and took a shot at it;\nbut rifle-shooting at night is a gamble, and there was no sign of a hit.\n\nI was too short-handed and too pressed for time to make a real try for\nthe lions next day, and after a morning spent in fruitless search for\nthe lost bullocks we went on again.\n\nInstead of fifteen to eighteen miles a day, as we should have done, we\nwere then making between four and eight--and sometimes not one.  The\nheat and the drought were awful; but at last we reached the Crocodile\nand struck up the right bank for the short cut--Pettigrew's Road--to\nBarberton, and there we had good water and some pickings of grass and\nyoung reeds along the river bank.\n\nThe clouds piled up every afternoon; the air grew still and sultry; the\nthunder growled and rumbled; a few drops of rain pitted the dusty road\nand pattered on the dry leaves; and that was all.  Anything seemed\npreferable to the intolerable heat and dust and drought, and each day I\nhoped the rain would come, cost what it might to the fly-bitten cattle;\nbut the days dragged on, and still the rain held off.\n\nThen came one black day as we crawled slowly along the river bank, which\nis not to be forgotten.  In one of the cross-spruits cutting sharply\ndown to the river the second waggon stuck: the poor tired-out cattle\nwere too weak and dispirited to pull it out.  Being short of drivers and\nleaders it was necessary to do the work in turns, that is, after getting\none waggon through a bad place, to go back for another.  We had to\ndouble-span this waggon, taking the span from the front waggon back to\nhook on in front of the other; and on this occasion I led the span while\nJim drove.  We were all tired out by the work and heat, and I lay down\nin the dusty road in front of the oxen to rest while the chains were\nbeing coupled up.  I looked up into old Zwaartland's eyes, deep, placid,\nconstant, dark grey eyes--the ox-eyes of which so many speak and write\nand so few really know.  There was trouble in them; he looked anxious\nand hunted; and it made me heart-sick to see it.\n\nWhen the pull came, the back span, already disheartened and out of hand,\nswayed and turned every way, straining the front oxen to the utmost; yet\nZwaartland took the strain and pulled.  For a few moments both front\noxen stood firm; then his mate cut it and turned; the team swung away\nwith a rush, and the old fellow was jerked backwards and rolled over on\nhis side.  He struggled gamely, but it was some minutes before he could\nrise; and then his eye looked wilder and more despairing; his legs were\nplanted apart to balance him, and his flanks were Jim straightened up\nthe double-span again.  Zwaartland leaned forward once more, and the\nothers followed his lead; the waggon moved a little and they managed to\npull it out.  But I, walking in front, felt the brave old fellow\nstagger, and saw him, with head lowered, plod blindly like one stricken\nto death.\n\nWe outspanned on the rise, and I told Jim to leave the reim on\nZwaartland's head.  Many a good turn from him deserved one more from\nme--the last.  I sent Jim for the rifle, and led the old front ox to the\nedge of the donga where a bleached tree lay across it...  He dropped\ninto the donga under the dead tree; and I packed the dry branches over\nhim and set fire to the pile.  It looks absurd now; but to leave him to\nthe wolf and the jackal seemed like going back on a friend; and the\nqueer looks of the boys, and what they would think of me, were easier to\nbear.  Jim watched, but said nothing: with a single grunt and a shrug of\nhis shoulders he stalked back to the waggons.\n\nThe talk that night at the boys' fire went on in low-pitched tones--not\na single word audible to me; but I knew what it was about.  As Jim stood\nup to get his blanket off the waggon, he stretched himself and closed\noff the evening's talk with his Zulu click and the remark that \"All\nwhite men are mad, in some way.\"\n\nSo we crawled on until we reached the turn where the road turned between\nthe mountain range and the river and where the railway runs to-day.\nThere, where afterwards Cassidy did his work, we outspanned one day when\nthe heat became so great that it was no longer possible to go on.  For\nweeks the storm-clouds had gathered, threatened, and dispersed; thunder\nhad come half-heartedly, little spots of rain enough to pock-mark the\ndust; but there had been no break in the drought.\n\nIt was past noon that day when everything grew still; the birds and\ninsects hushed their sound; the dry leaves did not give a whisper.\nThere was the warning in the air that one knows but cannot explain; and\nit struck me and the boys together that it was time to spread and tie\ndown the buck-sails which we had not unfolded for months.\n\nWhile we were busy at this there came an unheralded flash and crash;\nthen a few drops as big as florins; and then the flood-gates were opened\nand the reservoir of the long months of drought was turned loose on us.\nCrouching under the waggon where I had crept to lash down the sail, I\nlooked out at the deluge, hesitating whether to make a dash for my\ntent-waggon or remain there.\n\nAll along the surface of the earth there lay for a minute or so a\ntwo-feet screen of mingled dust and splash: long spikes of rain drove\ndown and dashed into spray, each bursting its little column of dust from\nthe powdery earth.  There was an indescribable and unforgettable\nprogression in sounds and smells and sights--a growth and change--rapid\nyet steady, inevitable, breathless, overwhelming.  Little enough could\none realise in those first few minutes and in the few square yards\naround; yet there are details, unnoticed at the time, which come back\nquite vividly when the bewildering rush is over, and there are\nimpressions which it is not possible to forget.\n\nThere were the sounds and the smells and the sights!  The sounds that\nbegan with the sudden crash of thunder; the dead silence that followed\nit; the first great drops that fell with such pats on the dust; then\nmore and faster--yet still so big and separate as to make one look round\nto see where they fell; the sound on the waggon-sail--at first as of\nbouncing marbles, then the `devil's tattoo,' and then the roar!\n\nAnd outside there was the muffled puff and patter in the dust; the\nrustle as the drops struck dead leaves and grass and sticks; the blend\nof many notes that made one great sound, always growing, changing and\nmoving on--full of weird significance--until there came the steady swish\nand hiss of water upon water, when the earth had ceased to stand up\nagainst the rain and was swamped.  But even that did not last; for then\nthe fallen rain raised its voice against the rest, and little sounds of\ntrickling scurrying waters came to tone the ceaseless hiss, and grew and\ngrew until from every side the chorus of rushing tumbling waters filled\nthe air with the steady roar of the flood.\n\nAnd the smells!  The smell of the baked drought-bound earth; the faint\nclearing and purifying by the first few drops; the mingled dust and\ndamp; the rinsed air; the clean sense of water, water everywhere; and in\nthe end the bracing sensation in nostrils and head, of, not wind\nexactly, but of swirling air thrust out to make room for the falling\nrain; and, when all was over, the sense of glorious clarified air and\nscoured earth--the smell of a new-washed world!\n\nAnd the things that one saw went with the rest, marking the stages of\nthe storm's short vivid life.  The first puffs of dust, where drops\nstruck like bullets; the cloud that rose to meet them; the drops\nthemselves that streaked slanting down like a flight of steel ramrods;\nthe dust dissolved in a dado of splash.  I had seen the yellow-brown\nground change colour; in a few seconds it was damp; then mud; then all\nasheen.  A minute more, and busy little trickles started everywhere--\ntiny things a few inches long; and while one watched them they joined\nand merged, hurrying on with twist and turn, but ever onward to a given\npoint--to meet like the veins in a leaf.  Each tuft of grass became a\nfountain-head: each space between, a little rivulet: swelling rapidly,\nracing away with its burden of leaf and twig and dust and foam until in\na few minutes all were lost in one sheet of moving water.\n\nCrouching under the waggon I watched it and saw the little streamlets,\ndirty and debris-laden, steal slowly on like sluggard snakes down to my\nfeet, and winding round me, meet beyond and hasten on.  Soon the\ngrass-tufts and higher spots were wet; and as the water rose on my boots\nand the splash beat up to my knees, it seemed worth while making for the\ntent of the waggon.  But in there the roar was deafening; the rain beat\ndown with such force that it drove through the canvas-covered\nwaggon-tent and greased buck-sail in fine mist.  In there it was black\ndark, the tarpaulin covering all, and I slipped out again back to my\nplace under the waggon to watch the storm.\n\nWe were on high ground which fell gently away on three sides--a long\nspur running down to the river between two of the numberless small\nwatercourses scoring the flanks of the hills.  Mere gutters they were,\neasy corrugations in the slope from the range to the river,\ninsignificant drains in which no water ever ran except during the heavy\nrains.  One would walk through scores of them with easy swinging stride\nand never notice their existence.  Yet, when the half-hour's storm was\nover and it was possible to get out and look round, they were rushing\nboiling torrents, twenty to thirty feet across and six to ten feet deep,\nfoaming and plunging towards the river, red with the soil of the\nstripped earth, and laden with leaves, grass, sticks, and branches--\nwater-furies, wild and ungovernable, against which neither man nor beast\ncould stand for a moment.\n\nWhen the rain ceased the air was full of the roar of waters, growing\nlouder and nearer all the time.  I walked down the long low spur to look\nat the river, expecting much, and was grievously disappointed.  It was\nno fuller and not much changed.  On either side of me the once dry\ndongas emptied their soil-stained and debris-laden contents in foaming\ncataracts, each deepening the yellowy red of the river at its banks; but\nout in mid-stream the river was undisturbed, and its normal colour--the\nclear yellow of some ambers--was unchanged.  How small the great storm\nseemed then!  How puny the flooded creeks and dongas--yet each master of\nman and his work!  How many of them are needed to make a real flood!\n\nThere are few things more deceptive than the tropical storm.  To one\ncaught in it, all the world seems deluged and overwhelmed; yet a mile\naway it may be all peace and sunshine.  I looked at the river and\nlaughed at myself!  The revelation seemed complete; it was humiliating;\none felt so small.  Still, the drought was broken; the rains had come;\nand in spite of disappointment I stayed to watch, drawn by the scores of\nlittle things caught up and carried by--the first harvest garnered by\nthe rains.\n\nA quarter of an hour or more may have been spent thus, when amid all the\nchorus of the rushing waters there stole in a duller murmur.  Murmur it\nwas at first, but it grew steadily into a low-toned, monotoned, distant\nroar; and it caught and held one like the roar of coming hail or\nhurricane.  It was the river coming down.\n\nThe sun was out again, and in the straight reach above the bend there\nwas every chance to watch the flood from the bank where I stood.  It\nseemed strangely long in coming, but come it did at last, in waves like\nthe half-spent breakers on a sandy beach--a slope of foam and broken\nwaters in the van, an ugly wall with spray-tipped feathered crest\nbehind, and tier on tier to follow.  Heavens, what a scene!  The force\nof waters, and the utter hopeless puniness of man!  The racing waves,\neach dashing for the foremost place, only to force the further on; the\ntall reeds caught waist high and then laid low, their silvery tops\ndipped, hidden, and drowned in the flood; the trees yielding, and the\nbranches snapping like matches and twirling like feathers down the\nstream; the rumbling thunder of big boulders loosed and tumbled, rolled\nlike marbles on the rocks below; whole trees brought down, and turning\nhelplessly in the flood--drowned giants with their branches swinging\nslowly over like nerveless arms.  It was tremendous; and one had to stay\nand watch.\n\nThen the waves ceased; and behind the opposite bank another stream began\nto make its way, winding like a huge snake, spreading wider as it went\nacross the flats beyond, until the two rejoined and the river became one\nagain.  The roar of waters gradually lessened; the two cataracts beside\nme were silent; and looking down I saw that the fall was gone and that\nwater ran to water--swift as ever, but voiceless now--and was lost in\nthe river itself.  Inch by inch the water rose towards my feet; tufts of\ngrass trembled, wavered, and went down; little wavelets flipped and\nlicked like tongues against the remaining bank of soft earth below me;\npiece after piece of it leant gently forward, and toppled headlong in\nthe eager creeping tide; deltas of yellow scum-flecked water worked\nsilently up the dongas, reaching out with stealthy feelers to enclose\nthe place where I was standing; and then it was time to go!\n\nThe cattle had turned their tails to the storm, and stood it out.  They\ntoo were washed clean and looked fresher and brighter; but there was\nnothing in that!  Two of them had been seen by the boys moving slowly,\nfoot by foot, before the driving rain down the slope from the outspan,\nstung by the heavy drops and yielding in their weakness to the easy\ngradient.  Only fifty yards away they should have stopped in the\nhollow--the shallow dry donga of the morning; but they were gone!\nUnwilling to turn back and face the rain, they had no doubt been caught\nin the rush of storm-water and swirled away, and their bodies were\nbobbing in the Crocodile many miles below by the time we missed them.\n\nIn a couple of hours the water had run off; the flooded dongas were\nalmost dry again; and we moved on.\n\nIt was then that the real `rot' set in.  Next morning there were half a\ndozen oxen unable to stand up; and so again the following day.  It was\nno longer possible to take the four waggons; all the spare cattle had\nbeen used up and it was better to face the worst at once; so I\ndistributed the best of the load on the other three waggons and\nabandoned the rest of it with the fourth waggon in the bush.  But day by\nday the oxen dropped out, and when we reached the Junction and branched\nup the Kaap, there were not enough left for three waggons.\n\nThis time it meant abandoning both waggon and load; and I gave the\ncattle a day's rest then, hoping that they would pick up strength on\ngood grass to face the eight drifts that lay between us and Barberton.\n\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.\n\nOUR LAST HUNT.\n\nWe had not touched fresh meat for many days, as there had been no time\nfor shooting; but I knew that game was plentiful across the river in the\nrough country between the Kaap and Crocodile, and I started off to make\nthe best of the day's delay, little dreaming that it was to be the last\ntime Jock and I would hunt together.\n\nWeeks had passed without a hunt, and Jock must have thought there was a\nsad falling away on the part of his master; he no longer expected\nanything; the rifle was never taken down now except for an odd shot from\nthe outspan or to put some poor animal out of its misery.  Since the\nnight with the lions, when he had been ignominiously cooped up, there\nhad been nothing to stir his blood and make life worth living; and this\nmorning as he saw me rise from breakfast and proceed to potter about the\nwaggons in the way he had come to regard as inevitable, he looked on\nindifferently for a few minutes and then stretched out full length in\nthe sun and went to sleep.\n\nI could not take him with me across the river, as the `fly' was said to\nbe bad there, and it was no place to risk horse or dog.  The best of\nprospects would not have tempted me to take chance with him, but I hated\nordering him to stay behind, as it hurt his dignity and sense of\ncomradeship, so it seemed a happy accident that he was asleep and I\ncould slip away unseen.  As the cattle were grazing along the river bank\nonly a few hundred yards off, I took a turn that way to have a look at\nthem, with natural but quite fruitless concern for their welfare, and a\nmoment later met the herd boy running towards me and calling out\nexcitedly something which I made out to be:\n\n\"Crocodile!  Crocodile, Inkos!  A crocodile has taken one of the oxen.\"\nThe waggon-boys heard it also, and armed with assegais and sticks were\non the bank almost as soon as I was; but there was no sign of crocodile\nor bullock.  The boy showed us the place where the weakened animal had\ngone down to drink--the hoof slides were plain enough--and told how, as\nit drank, the long black coffin-head had appeared out of the water.  He\ndescribed stolidly how the big jaws had opened and gripped the bullock's\nnose; how he, a few yards away, had seen the struggle; how he had\nshouted and hurled his sticks and stones and tufts of grass, and feinted\nto rush down at it; and how, after a muffled bellow and a weak\nstaggering effort to pull back, the poor beast had slid out into the\ndeep water and disappeared.  It seemed to be a quite unnecessary\naddition to my troubles: misfortunes were coming thick and fast!\n\nHalf an hour was wasted in watching and searching; but we saw no more of\ncrocodile or bullock, and as there was nothing to be done I turned up\nstream to find a shallower and a safer crossing.\n\nAt best it was not pleasant: the water was waist high and racing in\nnarrow channels between and over boulders and loose slippery stones, and\nI was glad to get through without a tumble and a swim.\n\nThe country was rough on the other side, and the old grass was high and\ndense, for no one went there in those days, and the grass stood unburnt\nfrom season to season.  Climbing over rocks and stony ground, crunching\ndry sticks underfoot, and driving a path through the rank tambooki\ngrass, it seemed well-nigh hopeless to look for a shot; several times I\nheard buck start up and dash off only a few yards away, and it began to\nlook as if the wiser course would be to turn back.  At last I got out of\nthe valley into more level and more open ground, and came out upon a\nledge or plateau a hundred yards or more wide, with a low ridge of rocks\nand some thorns on the far side--quite a likely spot.  I searched the\nopen ground from my cover, and seeing nothing there crossed over to the\nrocks, threading my way silently between them and expecting to find\nanother clear space beyond.  The snort of a buck brought me to a\nstandstill among the rocks, and as I listened it was followed by another\nand another from the same quarter, delivered at irregular intervals; and\neach snort was accompanied by the sound of trampling feet, sometimes\nlike stamps of anger and at other times seemingly a hasty movement.\n\nI had on several occasions interrupted fights between angry rivals: once\ntwo splendid koodoo bulls were at it; a second time it was two sables,\nand the vicious and incredibly swift sweep of the scimitar horns still\nlives in memory, along with the wonderful nimbleness of the other fellow\nwho dodged it; and another time they were blue wildebeeste; but some\ninterruption had occurred each time, and I had no more than a glimpse of\nwhat might have been a rare scene to witness.\n\nI was determined not to spoil it this time: no doubt it was a fight, and\nprobably they were fencing and circling for an opening, as there was no\nbump of heads or clash of horns and no tearing scramble of feet to\nindicate the real struggle.  I crept on through the rocks and found\nbefore me a tangle of thorns and dead wood, impossible to pass through\nin silence; it was better to work back again and try the other side of\nthe rocks.  The way was clearer there, and I crept up to a rock four or\nfive feet high, feeling certain from the sound that the fight would be\nin full view a few yards beyond.  With the rifle ready I raised myself\nslowly until my eyes were over the top of the rock.  Some twenty yards\noff, in an open flat of down-trodden grass, I saw a sable cow: she was\nstanding with feet firmly and widely planted, looking fiercely in front\nof her, ducking her head in threatening manner every few seconds, and\ngiving angry snorts; and behind, and huddled up against her, was her\nscared bewildered little red-brown calf.\n\nIt seems stupid not to have guessed what it all meant; yet the fact is\nthat for the few remaining seconds I was simply puzzled and fascinated\nby the behaviour of the two sables.  Then in the corner of my eye I saw,\naway on my right, another red-brown thing come into the open: it was\nJock, casting about with nose to ground for my trail which he had\nover-run at the point where I had turned back near the deadwood on the\nother side of the rocks.\n\nWhat happened then was a matter of a second or two.  As I turned to look\nat him he raised his head, bristled up all over, and made one jump\nforward; then a long low yellowish thing moved in the unbeaten grass in\nfront of the sable cow, raised its head sharply, and looked full into my\neyes; and before I could move a finger it shot away in one streak-like\nbound.  A wild shot at the lioness, as I jumped up full height; a shout\nat Jock to come back; a scramble of black and brown on my left; and it\nwas all over: I was standing in the open ground, breathless with\nexcitement, and Jock, a few yards off, with hind legs crouched ready for\na dash, looking back at me for leave to go!\n\nThe spoor told the tale; there was the outer circle made by the lioness\nin the grass, broken in places where she had feinted to rush in and\nstopped before the lowered horns; and inside this there was the smaller\ncircle, a tangle of trampled grass and spoor, where the brave mother had\nstood between her young and death.\n\n------------------------------------------------------------------------\n\nAny attempt to follow the lioness after that would have been waste of\ntime.  We struck off in a new direction, and in crossing a stretch of\nlevel ground where the thorn-trees were well scattered and the grass\nfairly short my eye caught a movement in front that brought me to\ninstant standstill.  It was as if the stem of a young thorn-tree had\nsuddenly waved itself and settled back again, and it meant that some\nlong-horned buck, perhaps a koodoo or a sable bull, was lying down and\nhad swung his head; and it meant also that he was comfortably settled,\nquite unconscious of danger.  I marked and watched the spot, or rather,\nthe line, for the glimpse was too brief to tell more than the direction;\nbut there was no other move.  The air was almost still, with just a\nfaint drift from him to us, and I examined every stick and branch, every\nstump and ant-heap, every bush and tussock, without stirring a foot.\nBut I could make out nothing: I could trace no outline and see no patch\nof colour, dark or light, to betray him.\n\nIt was an incident very characteristic of Bushveld hunting.  There I\nstood minute after minute--not risking a move, which would be certain to\nreveal me--staring and searching for some big animal lying half asleep\nwithin eighty yards of me on ground that you would not call good cover\nfor a rabbit.  We were in the sunlight: he lay somewhere beyond, where a\nfew scattered thorn-trees threw dabs of shade, marbling with dappled\nshade and light the already mottled surface of earth and grass.  I was\nhopelessly beaten, but Jock could see him well enough; he crouched\nbeside me with ears cocked, and his eyes, all ablaze, were fixed\nintently on the spot, except for an occasional swift look up to me to\nsee what on earth was wrong and why the shot did not come; his hind legs\nwere tucked under him and he was trembling with excitement.  Only those\nwill realise it who have been through the tantalising humiliating\nexperience.  There was nothing to be done but wait, leaving the buck to\nmake the first move.\n\nAnd at last it came: there was another slight shake of the horns, and\nthe whole figure stood out in bold relief.  It was a fine sable bull\nlying in the shadow of one of the thorn-trees with his back towards us,\nand there was a small ant-heap close behind him, making a greyish blot\nagainst his black back and shoulder, and breaking the expanse of colour\nwhich the eye would otherwise easily have picked up.\n\nThe ant-heap made a certain shot impossible, so I lowered myself slowly\nto the ground to wait until he should begin feeding or change his\nposition for comfort or shade, as they often do: this might mean waiting\nfor half an hour or more, but it was better than risking a shot in the\nposition in which he was lying.  I settled down for a long wait with the\nrifle resting on my knees, confidently expecting that when the time came\nto move would get up slowly, stretch himself, and have a good look\nround.  But he did nothing of the kind; a turn or eddy of the faint\nbreeze must have given him my wind; for there was one twitch of the\nhorns, as his nose was laid to windward, and without an instant's pause\nhe dashed off.  It was the quickest thing imaginable in a big animal: it\nlooked as though he started racing from his lying position.  The bush\nwas not close enough to save him, however, in spite of his start, and\nthrough the thin veil of smoke I saw him plunge and stumble, and then\ndash off again; and Jock seeing me give chase, went ahead and in half a\nminute I was left well behind, but still in sight of the hunt.\n\nI shouted at Jock to come back, just as one murmurs good-day to a\npassing friend in the din of traffic--from force of habit: of course, he\ncould hear nothing.  It was his first and only go at a sable; he knew\nnothing of the terrible horns and the deadly scythe-like sweep that\nmakes the wounded sable so dangerous--even the lioness had fought shy of\nthem--and great as was my faith in him, the risk in this case was not\none I would have taken.  There was nothing to do but follow.  A quarter\nof a mile on I drew closer up and found them standing face to face among\nthe thorns.  It was the first of three or four stands; the sable, with a\nwatchful eye on me, always moved on as I drew near enough to shoot.  The\nbeautiful black and white bull stood facing his little red enemy and the\nfence and play of feint and thrust, guard and dodge, was wonderful to\nsee.  Not once did either touch the other; at Jock's least movement the\nsable's head would go down with his nose into his chest and the\nmagnificent horns arched forward and poised so as to strike either right\nor left, and if Jock feinted a rush either way the scythe-sweep came\nwith lightning quickness, covering more than half a circle and carrying\nthe gleaming points with a swing right over the sable's own back.  Then\nhe would advance slowly and menacingly, with horns well forward ready to\nstrike and eyes blazing through his eyebrows, driving Jock before him.\n\nThere were three or four of these encounters in which I could take no\nhand: the distance, the intervening thorns and grass, and the quickness\nof their movements, made a safe shot impossible; and there was always\nthe risk of hitting Jock, for a hard run does not make for good\nshooting.  Each time as the sable drove him back there would be a short\nvicious rush suddenly following the first deliberate advance, and as\nJock scrambled back out of the way the bull would swing round with\nincredible quickness and be off full gallop in another direction.\nEvidently the final rush was a manoeuvre to get Jock clear of his heels\nand flanks as he started, and thus secure a lead for the next run.\n\nSince the day he was kicked by the koodoo cow Jock had never tackled an\nunbroken hind leg; a dangling one he never missed; but the lesson of the\nflying heels had been too severe to be forgotten, and he never made that\nmistake again.  In this chase I saw him time after time try at the\nsable's flanks and run up abreast of his shoulder and make flying leaps\nat the throat; but he never got in front where the horns could reach\nhim, and although he passed and repassed behind to try on the other side\nwhen he had failed at the one, and looked up eagerly at the hind legs as\nhe passed them, he made no attempt at them.\n\nIt must have been at the fourth or fifth stand that Jock got through the\nguard at last.  The sable was badly wounded in the body and doubtless\nstrength was failing, but there was little evidence of this yet.  In the\npauses Jock's tongue shot and slithered about, a glittering red streak,\nbut after short spells of panting, his head would shut up with a snap\nlike a steel trap and his face set with that look of invincible\nresolution which it got in part from the pursed-up mouth and in part\nfrom the intensity of the beady black-brown eyes: he was good for hours\nof this sort of work.\n\nThis time the sable drove him back towards a big thorn-tree.  It may\nhave been done without design, or it may have been done with the idea of\npinning him up against the trunk.  But Jock was not to be caught that\nway; in a fight he took in the whole field, behind as well as in front--\nas he had shown the night the second wild dog tackled him.  On his side,\ntoo, there may or may not have been design in backing towards the tree;\nwho knows?  I thought that he scored, not by a manoeuvre, but simply\nbecause of his unrelaxing watchfulness and his resolute unhesitating\ncourage.  He seemed to know instinctively that the jump aside, so safe\nwith the straight-charging animals, was no game to play against the side\nsweep of a sable's horns, and at each charge of the enemy he had\nscrambled back out of range without the least pretence of taking\nliberties.\n\nThis time the sable drove him steadily back towards the tree, but in the\nlast step, just as the bull made his rush, Jock jumped past the tree and\ninstead of scrambling back out of reach as before, dodged round and was\nin the rear of the buck before it could turn on him.  There were no\nflying heels to fear then, and without an instant's hesitation he\nfastened on one of the hind legs above the hock.  With a snort of rage\nand indignation the sable spun round and round, kicking and plunging\nwildly and making vicious sweeps with his horns; but Jock, although\nswung about and shaken like a rat, was out of reach and kept his grip.\nIt was a quick and furious struggle, in which I was altogether\nforgotten, and as one more desperate plunge brought the bull down in a\nstruggling kicking heap with Jock completely hidden under him, I ran up\nand ended the fight.\n\nIt always took him some time to calm down after these tussles: he became\nso wound up by the excitement of the struggle that time was needed to\nrun down again, so to say.  While I was busy on the double precaution of\nfixing up a scare for the aasvogels and cutting grass and branches to\ncover the buck, Jock moved restlessly round the sable, ever ready to\npounce on him again at the least sign of life.  The slithering tongue\nand wide-open mouth looked like a big red gash splitting his head in\ntwo; he was so blown, his breath came and went like the puffing of a\ndiminutive steam-engine at full speed, and his eyes with all the\nwickedness of fight--but none of the watchfulness--gone out of them,\nflickered incessantly from the buck to me: one sign from either would\nhave been enough!  It was the same old scene, the same old performance,\nthat I had watched scores of times; but it never grew stale or failed to\ndraw a laugh, a word of cheer, and pat of affection; and from him there\ncame always the same response, the friendly wagging of that stumpy tail,\na splashy lick, a soft upward look, and a wider split of the mouth that\nwas a laugh as plain as if one heard it.  But that was only an\ninterruption--a few seconds' distraction: it did not put him off or\nsatisfy him that all was well.  His attention went back to the buck, and\nthe everlasting footwork went on again.  With his front to the fallen\nenemy and his fore legs well apart he kept ever on the move forwards and\nbackwards, in quick steps of a few inches each, and at the same time\nedging round in his zigzag circle, making a track round the buck like a\nweather chart with the glass at `Changeable.'\n\n\"Silly old fusser!  Can't you see he's finished?\"  He could not hear\nanything, but the responsive wag showed that he knew I was talking to\nhim; and, dodging the piece of bark I threw at him, he resumed his\nridiculous round.\n\nI was still laughing at him, when he stopped and turning sharply round\nmade a snap at his side; and a few seconds later he did it again.  Then\nthere was a thin sing of insect wings; and I knew that the Tsetse fly\nwere on us.\n\nThe only thought then was for Jock, who was still working busily round\nthe sable.  For some minutes I sat with him between my legs, wisping\naway the flies with a small branch and wondering what to do.  It soon\nbecame clear that there was nothing to be gained by waiting: instead of\npassing away the fly became more numerous, and there was not a moment's\npeace or comfort to be had, for they were tackling me on the neck, arms,\nand legs, where the thorn-ripped pants left them bare to the knees; so,\nslinging the rifle over my shoulder, I picked Jock up, greatly to his\ndiscomfort, and carried him off in my arms at the best pace possible\nunder the circumstances.  Half a mile of that was enough, however: the\nweight, the awkwardness of the position, the effort to screen him, and\nthe difficulty of picking my way in very rough country at the same time,\nwere too much for me.  A tumble into a grass-hidden hole laid us both\nout sprawling, and I sat down again to rest and think, swishing the\nflies off as before.\n\nThen an idea came which, in spite of all the anxiety, made me laugh, and\nended in putting poor old Jock in quite the most undignified and\nridiculous plight he had known since the days of his puppyhood when his\nhead stuck in the bully-beef tin or the hen pecked him on the nose.  I\nripped off as much of my shirt as was not needed to protect me against\nthe flies, and making holes in it for his legs and tail fitted him out\nwith a home-made suit in about five minutes.  Time was everything; it\nwas impossible to run with him in my arms, but we could run together\nuntil we got out of the fly belt, and there was not much risk of being\nbitten as long as we kept up the running in the long grass.  It was a\nlong spell, and what with the rough country and the uncontrollable\nlaughter at the sight of Jock, I was pretty well done by the time we\nwere safely out of the `fly.'  We pulled up when the country began to\nfall away sharply towards the river, and there, to Jock's evident\nsatisfaction, I took off his suit--by that time very much tattered and\nawry.\n\nIt was there, lying between two rocks in the shade of a marula tree,\nthat I got one of those chances to see game at close quarters of which\nmost men only hear or dream.  There were no snapshot cameras then!\n\nWe had been lying there it may be for half an hour or more, Jock asleep\nand I spread out on my back, when a slight but distinct click, as of a\nhoof against a stone, made me turn quietly over on my side and listen.\nThe rock beside me was about four feet high, and on the other side of it\na buck of some kind, and a big one too, was walking with easy stride\ntowards the river.  Every footstep was perfectly clear; the walk was\nfirm and confident: evidently there was not the least suspicion of\ndanger.  It was only a matter of yards between us, and what little\nbreeze there was drifted across his course towards me, as he too made\nfor the river, holding a course parallel with the two long rocks between\nwhich we were lying.  The footsteps came abreast of us and then stopped,\njust as I was expecting him to walk on past the rock and down the hill\nin front of me.  The sudden halt seemed to mean that some warning\ninstinct had arrested him, or some least taint upon the pure air softly\neddying between the rocks had reached him.  I could hear his sniffs, and\npictured him looking about, silent but alarmed, before deciding which\nway to make his rush.\n\nI raised myself by inches, close to the rock, until I could see over it.\nA magnificent waterbuck bull, full-grown and in perfect coat and\ncondition, was standing less than five yards away and a little to the\nright, having already passed me when he came to a stop: he was so close\nthat I could see the waves and partings in his heavy coat; the rise and\nfall in his flanks as he breathed; the ruff on his shaggy bearded\nthroat, that gave such an air of grandeur to the head; the noble\ncarriage, as with head held high and slightly turned to windward he\nsniffed the breeze from the valley; the nostrils, mobile and sensitive,\nsearching for the least hint of danger; and the eye, large and full and\nsoft, luminous with watchful intelligence, and yet mild and calm--so\nfree was it from all trace of a disturbing thought.  And yet I was so\nclose, it seemed almost possible to reach out and touch him.  There was\nno thought of shooting: it was a moment of supreme enjoyment.  Just to\nwatch him: that was enough.\n\nIn a little while he seemed satisfied that all was well, and with head\nthrown slightly forward and the sure clean tread of his kind, he took\nhis line unhesitatingly down the hill.  As he neared the thicker bush\ntwenty yards away a sudden impulse made me give a shout.  In a single\nbound he was lost among the trees, and the clattering of loose stones\nand the crackle of sticks in his path had ceased before the cold\nshiver-down-the-back, which my spell-breaking shout provoked, had passed\naway.  When I turned round Jock was still asleep: little incidents like\nthat brought his deafness home.\n\nIt was our last day's hunting together; and I went back to the dreary\nround of hard, hopeless, useless struggle and daily loss.\n\nOne day, a calm cloudless day, there came without warning a tremendous\nbooming roar that left the air vibrating and seemed to shake the very\nearth, as a thousand echoes called and answered from hill to hill down\nthe long valley.  There was nothing to explain it; the kaffirs turned a\nsickly grey, and appealed to me; but I could give them no explanation--\nit was something beyond my ken--and they seemed to think it an evil omen\nof still greater ill-luck.  But, as it turned out, the luck was not all\nbad: some days passed before the mystery was solved, and then we came to\nwhere Coombes, with whom a week earlier I had tried--and failed--to keep\npace, had been blown to pieces with his boys, waggon, oxen, and three\ntons of dynamite: there was no fragment of waggon bigger than one's\nhand; and the trees all around were barked on one side.  We turned out\nto avoid the huge hole in the drift, and passed on.\n\nThere were only twenty oxen left when we reached the drift below Fig\nTree.  The water was nearly breast-high and we carried three-fourths of\nthe loads through on our heads, case by case, to make the pull as easy\nas possible for the oxen, as they could only crawl then.  We got one\nwaggon through with some difficulty, but at nightfall the second was\nstill in the river; we had carried out everything removable, even to the\nbuck-sails, but the weakened bullocks could not move the empty waggon.\n\nThe thunder-clouds were piling up ahead, and distant lightning gave\nwarning of a storm away up river; so we wound the trek-chain round a big\ntree on the bank, to anchor the waggon in case of flood, and reeling\nfrom work and weariness, too tired to think of food, I flung myself down\nin my blankets under the other waggon which was outspanned where we had\nstopped it in the double-rutted veld road, and settling comfortably into\nthe sandy furrow cut by many wheels, was `dead to the world' in a few\nminutes.  Near midnight the storm awoke me and a curious coldness about\nthe neck and shoulders made me turn over to pull the blankets up.  The\nroad had served as a storm-water drain, converting the two wheel furrows\ninto running streams, and I, rolled in my blankets, had dammed up one of\nthem.  The prompt flow of the released water as soon as I turned over,\ntold plainly what had happened.  I looked out at the driving rain and\nthe glistening earth, as shown up by constant flashes of lightning: it\nwas a world of rain and spray and running water.  It seemed that there\nwas neither hope nor mercy anywhere; I was too tired to care, and\ndropping back into the trough, slept the night out in water.\n\nIn the morning we found the waggon still in the drift, although partly\nhidden by the flood, but the force of the stream had half-floated and\nhalf-forced it round on to higher ground; only the anchoring chain had\nsaved it.  We had to wait some hours for the river to run down, and then\nto my relief the rested but staggering oxen pulled it out at the first\nattempt.\n\nRooiland, the light red ox with blazing yellow eyes and topped horns,\nfierce and untamable to the end, was in the lead then.  I saw him as he\ntook the strain in that last pull, and it was pitiful to see the\nrestless eager spirit fighting against the failing strength: he looked\ndesperate.  The thought seems fanciful--about a dumb animal--and perhaps\nit is; but what happened just afterwards makes it still vivid and fitted\nin very curiously with the superstitious notions of the boys.  We\noutspanned in order to re-pack the loads, and Rooiland, who as front ox\nwas the last to be released, stood for a few moments alone while the\nrest of the cattle moved away; then turning his back on them he gave a\ncouple of low moaning bellows and walked down the road back to the drift\nagain.  I had no doubt it was to drink; but the boys stopped their work\nand watched him curiously, and some remarks passed which were inaudible\nto me.  As the ox disappeared down the slope into the drift, Jim called\nto his leader to bring him back, and then turning to me, added with his\nusual positiveness, \"Rooiland is mad.  Umtagati!  Bewitched!  He is\nlooking for the dead ones.  He is going to die to-day!\"\n\nThe boy came back presently alone.  When he reached the drift, he said,\nRooiland was standing breast-high in the river, and then in a moment,\nwhether by step or slip, he was into the flood and swept away.  The\nleader's account was received by the others in absolute silence: a\nlittle tightening of the jaws and a little brightening of the eyes,\nperhaps, were all I could detect.  They were saturated with\nsuperstition, and as pagan fatalists they accepted the position without\na word.  I suggested to Jim that it was nothing but a return of\nRooiland's old straying habit, and probed him with questions, but could\nget nothing out of him; finally he walked off with an expressive shake\nof the head and the repetition of his former remark, without a shade of\ntriumph, surprise, or excitement in his voice: \"He is looking for the\ndead ones!\"\n\nWe were out of the fly then, and the next day we reached Fig Tree.\n\nThat was the end of the last trek.  Only three oxen reached Barberton,\nand they died within the week: the ruin was complete.\n\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY SIX.\n\nOUR VARIOUS WAYS.\n\nWhen the trip was squared off and the boys paid, there was nothing left.\nJim went home with waggons returning to Spitzkop: once more--for the\nlast time--grievously hurt in dignity because his money was handed to my\nfriend the owner of the waggon to be paid out to him when he reached his\nkraal; but his gloomy resentment melted as I handed over to him things\nfor which there was no further need.  The waggons moved off, and Jim\nwith them; but twice he broke back again to dance and shout his\ngratitude; for it was wealth to him to have the reims and voorslag, the\nodd yokes and strops and waggon tools, the baking pot and pan and\nbillies; and they were little to me when all else was gone.  And Jim,\nwith all his faults, had earned some title to remembrance for his\nloyalty.  My way had been his way; and the hardest day had never been\ntoo hard for him: he had seen it all through to the finish, without a\ngrumble and without a shirk.\n\nHis last shout, like the bellow of a bull, was an uproarious good-bye to\nJock.  And Jock seemed to know it was something of an occasion, for, as\nhe stood before me looking down the road at the receding waggons and the\ndancing figure of Jim, his ears were cocked, his head was tilted a\nlittle sideways, and his tail stirred gently.  It was at least a\nfriendly nod in return!\n\nA couple of weeks later I heard from my friend: \"You will be interested\nto hear that that lunatic of yours reached his kraal all right; but\nthat's not _his_ fault.  He is a holy terror.  I have never known such a\nrestless animal: he is like a change in the weather--you seem to feel\nhim everywhere, upsetting everything and every one the whole time.  I\nsuppose you hammered him into his place and kept him there; but I\nwouldn't have him at a gift.  It is not that there was anything really\nwrong; only there was no rest, no peace.\n\n\"But he's a gay fighter!  That was a treat: I never laughed so much in\nmy life.  Below the Devil's Kantoor we met a lot of waggons from\nLydenburg, and he had a row with one of the drivers, a lanky nigger with\ndandy-patched clothes.  The boy wouldn't fight--just yelled blue murder\nwhile Jim walloped him.  I heard the yells and the whacks, like the\nbeating of carpets, and there was Jim laying it on all over him--legs,\nhead, back, and arms--with a sort of ferocious satisfaction, every whack\nbeing accompanied by a husky suppressed shout: `Fight, Shangaan!\nFight!'  But the other fellow was not on for fighting; he floundered\nabout, yelled for mercy and help, and tried to run away; but Jim simply\nplayed round him--one spring put him alongside each time.  I felt sorry\nfor the long nigger and was going to interfere and save him, but just\nthen one of his pals called out to their gang to come along and help,\nand ran for his sticks.  It was rare fun then.  Jim dropped the patched\nfellow and went like a charging lion straight for the waggons where the\ngang were swarming for their sticks, letting out right and left whenever\nhe saw a nigger, whether they wanted to fight or not; and in about five\nseconds the whole lot were heading for the bush with Jim in full chase.\n\n\"Goodness knows what the row was about.  As far as I can make out from\nyour heathen, it is because the other boy is a Shangaan and reads the\nBible.  Jim says this boy--Sam is his name--worked for you and ran away.\nSam says it is not true, and that he never even heard of you, and that\nJim is a stranger to him.  There's something wrong in this, though,\nbecause when the row began, Sam first tried to pacify your lunatic, and\nI heard him sing out in answer to the first few licks, `Kahle, Umganaam;\nKahle, Makokel'!'  (Gently, friend; gently, Makokel'.) `Wow, Makokela,\ny' ou bulala mena!'  (Wow, Makokela, you will kill me.)  He knew Jim\nright enough; that was evident.  But it didn't help him; he had to skip\nfor it all the same.  I was glad to pay the noble Jim off and drop him\nat his kraal.  Sam was laid up when we left.\"\n\nIt is better to skip the change from the old life to the new--when the\nluck, as we called it, was all out, when each straw seemed the last for\nthe camel's breaking back, and there was always still another to come.\nBut the turn came at last, and the `long arm of coincidence' reached out\nto make the `impossible' a matter of fact.  It is better to skip all\nthat: for it is not the story of Jock, and it concerns him only so far\nthat in the end it made our parting unavoidable.\n\nWhen the turn did come it was strange, and at times almost bewildering,\nto realise that the things one had struggled hardest against and\nregarded as the worst of bad luck were blessings in disguise and were\nall for the best.  So the new life began and the old was put away; but\nthe new life, for all its brighter and wider outlook and work of another\nclass, for all the charm that makes Barberton now a cherished memory to\nall who knew the early days, was not all happy.  The new life had its\nhours of darkness too; of almost unbearable `trek fever'; of restless,\nsleepless, longing for the old life; of `home-sickness' for the veld,\nthe freedom, the roaming, the nights by the fire, and the days in the\nbush!  Now and again would come a sleepless night with its endless\nprocession of scenes, in which some remembered from the past were\ninterlinked with others imagined for the future; and here and there in\nthese long waking dreams came stabs of memory--flashes of lightning\nvividness: the head and staring eyes of the koodoo bull, as we had stood\nfor a portion of a second face to face; the yawning mouth of the\nmaddened crocodile; the mamba and its beady hateful eyes, as it swept by\nbefore the bush fire.  And there were others too that struck another\nchord: the cattle, the poor dumb beasts that had worked and died:\nstepping-stones in a man's career; the `books,' the `chalk and\nblackboard' of the school--used, discarded, and forgotten!  No, they\nwere not forgotten; and the memory of the last trek was one long mute\nreproach on their behalf: they had paved the roadway for the Juggernaut\nman.\n\nAll that was left of the old life was Jock; and soon there was no place\nfor him.  He could not always be with me; and when left behind he was\nmiserable, leading a life that was utterly strange to him, without\ninterest and among strangers.  While I was in Barberton he accompanied\nme everywhere, but--absurd as it seems--there was a constant danger for\nhim there, greater though less glorious than those he faced so lightly\nin the veld.  His deafness, which passed almost unnoticed and did not\nseem to handicap him at all in the veld, became a serious danger in\ncamp.  For a long time he had been unable to hear a sound, but he could\n_feel_ sounds: that is to say, he was quick to notice anything that\ncaused a vibration.  In the early days of his deafness I had been\nworried by the thought that he would be run over while lying asleep near\nor under the waggons, and the boys were always on the look-out to stir\nhim up; but we soon found that this was not necessary.  At the first\nmovement he would feel the vibration and jump up.  Jim realised this\nwell enough, for when wishing to direct his attention to strange dogs or\nShangaans, the villain could always dodge me by stamping or hammering on\nthe ground, and Jock always looked up: he seemed to know the difference\nbetween the sounds he could ignore, such as chopping wood, and those\nthat he ought to notice.\n\nIn camp--Barberton in those days was reckoned a mining camp, and was\nalways referred to as `camp'--the danger was due to the number of\nsounds.  He would stand behind me as I stopped in the street, and\nsometimes lie down and snooze if the wait was a long one; and the poor\nold fellow must have thought it a sad falling off, a weary monotonous\nchange from the real life of the veld.  At first he was very watchful,\nand every rumbling wheel or horse's footfall drew his alert little eyes\nround to the danger point; but the traffic and noise were almost\ncontinuous and one sound ran into another; and thus he became careless\nor puzzled and on several occasions had narrowly escaped being run over\nor trodden on.\n\nOnce, in desperation after a bad scare, I tried chaining him up, and\nalthough his injured reproachful look hurt, it did not weaken me: I had\nhardened my heart to do it, and it was for his own sake.  At lunch-time\nhe was still squatting at the full length of the chain, off the mat and\nstraw, and with his head hanging in the most hopeless dejected attitude\none could imagine.  It was too much for me--the dog really felt it; and\nwhen I released him there was no rejoicing in his freedom as the hated\ncollar and chain dropped off: he turned from me without a sign or sound\nof any sort, and walking off slowly, lay down some ten yards away with\nhis head resting on his paws!  He went to think--not to sleep.\n\nI felt abominably guilty, and was conscious of wanting to make up for it\nall the afternoon.\n\nOnce I took him out to Fig Tree Creek fifteen miles away, and left him\nwith a prospector friend at whose camp in the hills it seemed he would\nbe much better off and much happier.  When I got back to Barberton that\nnight he was waiting for me, with a tag of chewed rope hanging round his\nneck, not the least ashamed of himself, but openly rejoicing in the\nmeeting and evidently never doubting that I was equally pleased.  And he\nwas quite right there.\n\nBut it could not go on.  One day as he lay asleep behind me, a loaded\nwaggon coming sharply round a corner as nearly as possible passed over\nhim.  The wheel was within inches of his back as he lay asleep in the\nsand: there was no chance to grab--it was a rush and a kick that saved\nhim; and he rolled over under the waggon, and found his own way out\nbetween the wheels.\n\nA few days after this Ted passed through Barberton, and I handed Jock\nover to him, to keep and to care for until I had a better and safer home\nfor him.\n\n------------------------------------------------------------------------\n\nOne day some two years later there turned up at my quarters an old\nfriend of the transport days--Harry Williams--he had been away on a long\ntrek `up north' to look for some supposed mine of fabulous richness of\nwhich there had been vague and secret reports from natives.  He stayed\nwith me for some days, and one evening after the bout of fever and ague\nhad passed off and rest and good feeding had begun to pull him round, he\ntold us the story of their search.  It was a trip of much adventure, but\nit was the end of his story that interested me most; and that is all\nthat need be told here.\n\nThey had failed to find the mine; the native who was supposed to know\nall about it had deserted, with all he could carry off; they were short\nof food and money, and out of medicines; the delays had been great; they\nwere two hundred miles from any white men; there was no road but their\nown erratic track through the bush; the rains had begun and the fever\nseason set in; the cattle--they had one waggon and span--were worn-out;\nthe fever had gripped them, and of the six white men, three were dead,\none dying, and two only able to crawl; most of their boys had deserted;\none umfaan fit for work, and the driver--then delirious with fever--\ncompleted the party.\n\nThe long journey was almost over; and they were only a few treks from\nthe store and camp for which they were making; but they were so stricken\nand helpless it seemed as though that little was too much, and they must\ndie within reach of help.  The driver, a big Zulu, was then raving mad;\nhe had twice run off into the bush and been lost for hours.  Precious\ntime and waning strength were spent in the search, and with infinite\neffort and much good luck they had found him and induced him to return.\nOn the second occasion they had enticed him on to the waggon and, as he\nlay half unconscious between bursts of delirium, had tied him down flat\non his back, with wrists and ankles fastened to the buck-rails.  It was\nall they could do to save him: they had barely strength to climb up and\npour water into his mouth from time to time.\n\nIt was midday then, and their dying comrade was so far gone that they\ndecided to abandon one trek and wait for evening, to allow him to die in\npeace.  Later on, when they thought it was all over, they tried to\nscrape out a grave for him, and began to pull out one old blanket to\nwrap round him in place of a shroud and coffin.  It was then that the\nman opened his eyes and faintly shook his head; so they inspanned as\nbest they could and made another trek.  I met the man some years\nafterwards, and he told me he had heard all they said, but could only\nremember one thing, and that was Harry's remark, that `two gin-cases\nwere not enough for a coffin, so they would have to take one of the\nblankets instead.'\n\nIn the morning they went on again.  It was then at most two treks more\nto their destination; but they were too weak to work or walk, and the\ncattle were left to crawl along undriven; but after half an hour's\ntrekking, they reached a bad drift where the waggon stuck; the cattle\nwould not face the pull.  The two tottering trembling white men did\ntheir best, but neither had strength to use the whip; the umfaan led the\noxen this way and that, but there was no more effort in them.  The water\nhad given out, and the despairing helpless men saw death from thirst\nawaiting them within a few hours' trek of help; and to add to the horror\nof it all, the Zulu driver, with thirst aggravating his delirium, was a\nraving lunatic--struggling and wrenching at his bonds until the waggon\nrattled, and uttering maniac yells and gabbling incessantly.\n\nHours had gone by in hopeless effort; but the oxen stood out at all\nangles, and no two would pull together in answer to the feeble efforts\nof the fainting men.  Then there came a lull in the shouts from the\nwaggon and in answer to the little voorlooper's warning shout, \"Pas op,\nBaas!\"  (Look out, Master!), the white men looked round and saw the Zulu\ndriver up on his knees freeing himself from the reims.  In another\nmoment he was standing up full height--a magnificent but most unwelcome\nsight: there was a thin line of froth along the half-opened mouth; the\ndeep-set eyes glared out under eyebrows and forehead bunched into\nfrowning wrinkles, as for a few seconds he leaned forward like a lion\nabout to spring and scanned the men and oxen before him; and then as\nthey watched him in breathless silence, he sprang lightly off the\nwaggon, picked up a small dry stick as he landed, and ran up along the\nspan.\n\nHe spoke to the after-ox by name as he passed; called to another, and\ntouched it into place; thrust his way between the next one and the dazed\nwhite man standing near it, tossing him aside with a brush of his arm,\nas a ploughshare spurns a sod; and then they saw how the boy's madness\nhad taken him.  His work and his span had called to him in his delirium;\nand he had answered.  With low mutterings, short words hissed out, and\nall the sounds and terms the cattle knew shot at them--low-pitched and\nwith intense repression--he ran along the span, crouching low all the\ntime like a savage stealing up for murderous attack.\n\nThe two white men stood back and watched.\n\nReaching the front oxen, he grasped the leading reim and pulled them\nround until they stood level for the straight pull out; then down the\nother side of the span he ran with cat-like tread and activity, talking\nto each and straightening them up as he had done with the others; and\nwhen he reached the waggon again, he turned sharply and overlooked the\nspan.  One ox had swung round and stood out of line; there was a pause\nof seconds, and then the big Zulu called to the ox by name--not loudly\nbut in a deep low tone, husky with intensity--and the animal swung back\ninto line again.\n\nThen out of the silence that followed came an electrifying yell to the\nspan: every bullock leaned to its yoke, and the waggon went out with a\nrush.\n\nAnd he drove them at a half-trot all the way to the store: without\nwater; without help; without consciousness; the little dry twig still in\nhis hand, and only his masterful intensity and knowledge of his work and\nspan to see him through.\n\n\"A mad troublesome savage,\" said Harry Williams, \"but one of the very\nbest.  Anyhow, we thought so; he saved us!\"\n\nThere was something very familiar in this, and it was with a queer\nfeeling of pride and excitement that I asked:\n\n\"Did he ever say to you `My catchum lion 'live'?\"\n\n\"By gum!  You know him?  Jim: Jim Makokel'!\"\n\n\"Indeed I do.  Good old Jim!\"\n\n------------------------------------------------------------------------\n\nYears afterwards Jim was still a driver, working when necessary,\nfighting when possible, and enjoying intervals of lordly ease at his\nkraal where the wives and cattle stayed and prospered.\n\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.\n\nHIS DUTY.\n\nAnd Jock?\n\nBut I never saw my dog again.  For a year or so he lived something of\nthe old veld life, trekking and hunting; from time to time I heard of\nhim from Ted and others: stories seemed to gather easily about him as\nthey do about certain people, and many knew Jock and were glad to bring\nnews of him.  The things they thought wonderful and admirable made\npleasant news for them to tell and welcome news to me, and they were\nheard with contented pride, but without surprise, as \"just like him\":\nthere was nothing more to be said.\n\nOne day I received word from Ted that he was off to Scotland for a few\nmonths and had left Jock with another old friend, Tom Barnett--Tom, at\nwhose store under the Big Fig Tree, Seedling lies buried; and although I\nwas glad that he had been left with a good friend like Tom, who would\ncare for him as well as any one could, the life there was not of the\nkind to suit him.  For a few months it would not matter; but I had no\nidea of letting him end his days as a watch-dog at a trader's store in\nthe kaffir country.  Tom's trouble was with thieves; for the natives\nabout there were not a good lot, and their dogs were worse.  When Jock\nsaw or scented them, they had the poorest sort of luck or chance: he\nfought to kill, and not as town dogs fight; he had learnt his work in a\nhard school, and he never stopped or slackened until the work was done;\nso his fame soon spread and it brought Tom more peace than he had\nenjoyed for many a day.  Natives no longer wandered at will into the\nreed-enclosed yard; kaffir dogs ceased to sneak into the store and\nthrough the house, stealing everything they could get.  Jock took up his\nplace at the door, and hungry mongrels watched him from a distance or\nsneaked up a little closer when from time to time he trotted round to\nthe yard at the back of the building to see how things were going there.\n\nAll that was well enough during the day; but the trouble occurred at\nnight.  The kaffirs were too scared to risk being caught by him, but the\ndogs from the surrounding kraals prowled about after dark, scavenging\nand thieving where they could; and what angered Tom most of all was the\nkilling of his fowls.  The yard at the back of the store was enclosed by\na fence of close-packed reeds, and in the middle of the yard stood the\nfowl-house with a clear space of bare ground all round it.  On many\noccasions kaffir dogs had found their way through the reed fence and\nkilled fowls perching about the yard, and several times they had burgled\nthe fowl-house itself.  In spite of Jock's presence and reputation, this\nnight robbing still continued, for while he slept peacefully in front of\nthe store, the robbers would do their work at the back.  Poor old\nfellow!  They were many and he was one; they prowled night and day, and\nhe had to sleep sometimes; they were watchful and he was deaf; so he had\nno chance at all unless he saw or scented them.\n\nThere were two small windows looking out on to the yard, but no door in\nthe back of the building; thus, in order to get into the yard, it was\nnecessary to go out of the front door and round the side of the house.\nOn many occasions Tom, roused by the screaming of the fowls, had seized\nhis gun and run round to get a shot at the thieves; but the time so lost\nwas enough for a kaffir dog, and the noise made in opening the reed gate\ngave ample warning of his coming.\n\nThe result was that Tom generally had all his trouble for nothing; but\nit was not always so.  Several times he roused Jock as he ran out, and\ninvariably got some satisfaction out of what followed; once Jock caught\none of the thieves struggling to force a way through the fence and held\non to the hind leg until Tom came up with the gun; on other occasions he\nhad caught them in the yard; on others, again, he had run them down in\nthe bush and finished it off there without help or hindrance.\n\nThat was the kind of life to which Jock seemed to have settled down.\n\nHe was then in the very prime of life, and I still hoped to get him back\nto me some day to a home where he would end his days in peace.  Yet it\nseemed impossible to picture him in a life of ease and idleness--a\nwatch-dog in a house sleeping away his life on a mat, his only\nexcitement keeping off strange kaffirs and stray dogs, or burrowing for\nrats and moles in a garden, with old age, deafness, and infirmities\ngrowing year by year to make his end miserable.  I had often thought\nthat it might have been better had he died fighting--hanging on with his\nindomitable pluck and tenacity, tackling something with all the odds\nagainst him; doing his duty and his best as he had always done--and died\nas Rocky's dog had died.  If on that last day of our hunting together he\nhad got at the lioness, and gone under in the hopeless fight; if the\nsable bull had caught and finished him with one of the scythe-like\nsweeps of the scimitar horns; if he could have died--like Nelson--in the\nhour of victory!  Would it not have been better for him--happier for me?\nOften I thought so.  For to fade slowly away; to lose his strength and\nfire and intelligence; to outlive his character, and no longer be\nhimself!  No, that could not be happiness!\n\nWell, Jock is dead!  Jock, the innocent cause of Seedling's downfall and\ndeath, lies buried under the same big Fig Tree: the graves stand side by\nside.  He died, as he lived--true to his trust; and this is how it\nhappened, as it was faithfully told to me:\n\nIt was a bright moonlight night--Think of the scores we had spent\ntogether, the mild glorious nights of the Bushveld!--and once more Tom\nwas roused by a clatter of falling boxes and the wild screams of fowls\nin the yard.  Only the night before the thieves had beaten him again;\nbut this time he was determined to be even with them.  Jumping out of\nbed he opened the little window looking out on to the fowl-house, and,\nwith his gun resting on the sill, waited for the thief.  He waited long\nand patiently; and by-and-by the screaming of the fowls subsided enough\nfor him to hear the gurgling and scratching about in the fowl-house, and\nhe settled down to a still longer watch; evidently the kaffir dog was\nenjoying his stolen meal in there.\n\n\"Go on!  Finish it!\"  Tom muttered grimly; \"I'll have you this time if I\nwait till morning!\"\n\nSo he stood at the window waiting and watching, until every sound had\ndied away outside.  He listened intently: there was not a stir; there\nwas nothing to be seen in the moonlit yard; nothing to be heard; not\neven a breath of air to rustle the leaves in the big fig tree.\n\nThen, in the same dead stillness the dim form of a dog appeared in the\ndoorway, stepped softly out of the fowl-house, and stood in the deep\nshadow of the little porch.  Tom lifted the gun slowly and took careful\naim.  When the smoke cleared away, the figure of the dog lay still,\nstretched out on the ground where it had stood; and Tom went back to\nbed, satisfied.\n\n------------------------------------------------------------------------\n\nThe morning sun slanting across the yard shone in Tom's eyes as he\npushed the reed gate open and made his way towards the fowl-house.\nUnder the porch, where the sunlight touched it, something shone like\nburnished gold.\n\nHe was stretched on his side--it might have been in sleep; but on the\nsnow-white chest there was one red spot.\n\nAnd inside the fowl-house lay the kaffir dog--dead.\n\nJock had done his duty.\n\n------------------------------------------------------------------------\n\nThe End.\n\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.\n\nNOTES.\n\nSnake stories are proverbially an `uncommercial risk' for those who\nvalue a reputation for truthfulness.  Hailstorms are scarcely less\ndisastrous; hence these notes!\n\n------------------------------------------------------------------------\n\nMamba.--This is believed to be the largest and swiftest of the deadly\nsnakes, and one of the most wantonly vicious.  The late Dr Colenso\n(Bishop of Zululand) in his Zulu dictionary describes them as attaining\na length of twelve feet, and capable of chasing a man on horseback.  The\nwriter has seen several of this length, and has heard of measurements up\nto fourteen feet (which, however, were not sufficiently verified); he\nhas also often heard stories of men on horseback being chased by black\nmambas, but has never met the man himself, nor succeeded in eliciting\nthe important facts as to pace and distance.  However that may be, the\nmovements of a mamba, even on open ground, are, as the writer has\nseveral times observed, so incredibly swift as to leave no other\nimpression on the mind than that of having witnessed a magical\ndisappearance.  How often and how far they `travel on their tails,'\nwhether it is a continuous movement or merely a momentary uprising to\ncommand a view, and what length or what proportion of the body is on the\nground for support or propulsion, the writer has no means of knowing:\nduring the Zulu war an Imperial officer was bitten by a mamba _while on\nhorseback_ and died immediately.\n\n------------------------------------------------------------------------\n\nHailstorms.--Bad hailstorms occur every year in South Africa, but they\ndo not last long (ten minutes is enough to destroy everything that\nstands).  The distances are immense, and the area of disturbance is\nusually a narrow strip; hence, except when one strikes a town, very few\npeople ever witness them.  This summer hailstorms were more general and\nmore severe in the Transvaal than for some time past.  A bad storm\nbaffles description.  The size of the hailstones is only one of the\nfactors--a strong wind enormously increases the destructiveness; yet\nsome idea may be gathered from the size of the stones.  The writer took\na plaster cast of one picked up at Zuurfontein (near Johannesburg), in\nNovember 1906, which measured 4.5 inches long, 3.5 wide and 1.125 inches\nthick--a slab of white ice.  In the Hekpoort Valley (near Johannesburg)\nand in Barberton, about the same date, the veld was like a glacier; the\nhail lay like snow, inches deep, and during the worst spells the general\nrun of the hailstones varied in size from pigeons' eggs to hens' eggs;\nbut the big ones, the crash of whose individual blows was distinctly\nheard through the general roar, are described as `bigger than cricket\nballs' and `the size of breakfast cups,' generally with an elongation or\ntail--like a balloon.  Sheep and buck were killed, and full-grown cattle\nso battered that some were useless and others died of the injuries;\nwooden doors were broken in, the panels being completely shattered;\ncorrugated iron roofs were perforated, and in some cases the hailstones\ndrove completely through them.  The writer photographed a portion of a\nroof in Barberton which had suffered thus, and saw plaster casts--formed\nby pouring plaster of Paris into the indentations which two hailstones\nhad made in a flower bed--in diameter equalling, respectively, tennis\nand cricket balls.\n\nNear Harrismith, O.R.C., in 1903, two herd boys with a troop of about a\nhundred goats and calves were caught by the hail.  The boys and all the\nstock, except one old goat, were killed.\n\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY NINE.\n\nGLOSSARY.\n\nNOTE.--_The spelling of Cape Dutch and native names is in many cases not\nto be determined by recognised authority.  The pronunciation cannot be\nquite accurately suggested through the medium of English.  The figures\nof weights and measurements of animals are gathered from many sources,\nand refer only to first-class specimens.  The weights are necessarily\napproximate_.\n\n------------------------------------------------------------------------\n\nAASVOGEL (d), a vulture (_literally_. carrion bird).\n\nANT-BEAR, AARDVARK (d) (_Orycteropus jifer_).\n\nANT-HEAP, mound made by termites or `white ants.'  Usually formed by one\ncolony of ants; about two to four feet in base diameter and height, but\noften in certain localities very much larger.  The writer photographed\none this year near the scene of the Last Hunt, eighteen feet base\ndiameter and ten feet high, and another in Rhodesia which formed a\ncomplete background for a travelling waggonette and six mules.  In both\ncases these mounds were `deserted cities,' and trees, probably fifty to\none hundred years old, were growing out of them.\n\nASSEGAI (_pronounced_ ass-e-guy) (n), native spear.\n\nBAAS (d), master.\n\nBANSELA (_pronounced_ baan-se-la) (n), a present.\n\nBEKER (_pronounced_ beaker) (d), a cup.\n\nBILLY, a small tin utensil with lid and handle, used for boiling water.\n\nBUCK-SAIL, tarpaulin used for covering transport waggons, which are\nknown as buck-waggons.\n\nBUFFALO, Cape buffalo (_Bos Caffer_).  Height, 5 feet 6 inches; weight,\npossibly 1000 pounds; horns, 48 inches from tip to tip and 36 inches\neach in length on curve.\n\nBULTONG, or Biltong (_pronounced_ biltong) (n), meat cut in strips,\nslightly salted, and dried in the open air.\n\nBUSH BUCK, a medium-sized but very courageous antelope (_Tragelaphus\nscriptus_).  Height, 3 feet; weight, 130 pounds; horns (male only), 18\ninches.\n\nBUSH VELD, properly Bosch veld (d), bush country; also called Low Veld\nand Low Country.\n\nCANE-RAT (_Thryonomys swinderentanus_).\n\nCETYWAYO (_see_ Ketshwayo).\n\nCHAKA, properly Tshaka (n), the first of the great Zulu kings and\nfounder of the Zulu military power.\n\nDASSIE (_pronounced_ daas-ey) (d), rock-rabbit; coney (_Procavia (Hyrax)\ncapensis_) (_literally_. little badger).\n\nDINGAAN, properly Dingan (e) (n), the second of the great Zulu kings;\nbrother, murderer, and successor of Chaka.\n\nDISSELBOOM (d), the pole of a vehicle.\n\nDONGA (n), a gully or dry watercourse with steep banks.\n\nDOUGH-BOYS, scones; frequently unleavened dough baked in coals; also\nash-cakes, roaster cookies, stick-in-the-gizzards, veld-bricks, etc.\n\nDRIFT (d), a ford.\n\nDUIKER (_pronounced_ in English dyker, in Dutch dayker) (d), a small\nantelope found throughout Africa (_Cephalophus grimmi_).  Gross weight,\n30 to 40 pounds; height, 28 inches; horns, 5.5 inches.  (_literally_\ndiver, so called from its habit of disappearing and re-appearing in low\nscrub in a succession of bounds when it first starts running).\n\nGO'WAY BIRD, the grey plantain eater (_Schizorbis concolor_).\n\nHARTEBEESTE (_pronounced_ haar-te-beast) (d), a large antelope, of which\nthere are several varieties, varying in gross weight from 300 to 500\npounds; height, 48 inches; horns, 24 inches.\n\nHIGH VELD, properly Hoogeveld (d), high country; the plateau, about 5000\nto 6000 feet above sea-level.\n\nHONEY-BIRD, the honey guide (several species; family, _Indicatoriae_).\n\nHONEY-SUCKER, sun bird (several species; family, _Nectariniidae_).\n\nHORSE-SICKNESS, a lung affection prevalent during summer in low-lying\nparts; generally fatal; caused by microbes introduced in the blood by\nsome insect.\n\nIMPALA (n), an antelope (_Aepyceros melampus_); habitat, Bushveld;\nweight, 140 pounds; horns, up to 20 inches, straight.\n\nIMPI (_pronounced_ impey) (n), an army or body of armed natives gathered\nfor or engaged in war.\n\nINDUNA (_pronounced_ in-doo-nah) (n), a head-man, captain, or chief,\ngreat or petty.\n\nINKOS (_pronounced_ in-kos--`os' as in verbose) (n), chief; used as a\nterm of respect in address or salutation.\n\nINSPAN, properly Enspan (d), to yoke up, harness up, or hitch up.\n\nISANDHL'WANA, also 'SANDHL'WANA, incorrectly Isandula (_pronounced_\nsaan-shle-waa-na), meaning `the little hand', the hill which gave the\nname to the battle in which the 24th Regiment was annihilated in the\nZulu War, 1879.\n\nKAFFIR CORN, sorghum.\n\nKAHLE (_pronounced_ kaa-shle, corrupted in kitchen-Kaffir to `gaashly')\n(n), gently, carefully, pleasantly, well.  `Hamba kahle,' farewell, go\nin peace.  `Hlala (_pronounced_ shlala) kahle,' farewell, stay in peace.\n\nKEHLA (_pronounced_ keh-shlaa) (n), a native of certain age and position\nentitled to wear the head ring.  Dutch, _ring kop_--ring head.\n\nKERRIE, or KIRRIE, native sticks used for fighting, frequently knobbed;\nhence, knob-kerrie.\n\nKETSHWAYO (_pronounced_ ketsh-wy-o), incorrectly Cetywayo, fourth and\nlast of the great Zulu kings.\n\nKLIPSPRINGER (d), a small antelope, in appearance and habit rather like\nchamois (_Oreotragus saltator_) (_literally_. a rock-jumper).\n\nKLOOF (d), a gorge.\n\nKNEEHALTER (d), to couple the head to one fore leg by a reim or strap\nattached to the halter, closely enough to prevent the animal from moving\nfast.\n\nKNOORHAAN, commonly, but incorrectly, Koorhaan or Koraan, (d), the\nsmaller bustard (_literally_ scolding cock).\n\nKOODOO, properly KUDU (n) (_Strepsiceros capensis_).  Habitat, rugged\nbushy country.  Height, 5 feet; weight, 600 pounds; horns, up to 48\ninches straight, and 66 inches on curve.\n\nKOPJE (_pronounced_ copy) (d), a hill (_literally_ a little head).\n\nKRAAL (_pronounced_ in English crawl) (d), an enclosure for cattle,\nsheep, etc, a corral; also a collection of native huts, the home of a\nfamily, the village of a chief or tribe.\n\nKRANS (d), often spelt KRANTZ (German) (D. _krans_, a circlet or crown),\na precipitous face or coronet of rock on a hill or mountain.\n\nLAGAVAAN, a huge water lizard, the monitor.  Cape Dutch, _lagewaan_\n(pure Dutch, _laguaan_) (_Varanus niloticus_).  Maximum length up to 8\nfeet.\n\nLOOPER, round shot for fowling-piece, about four times the size of buck\nshot.\n\nMARULA, in Zulu UMGANO, a tree which furnishes soft white wood, which is\ncarved into bowls, spoons, etc; fruit eaten or fermented for drink\n(_Sclerocarya caffra_).\n\nMEERKAT (d), a small animal of the mongoose kind (properly applied to\n_Suricata tetradactyla_, but loosely to several species).\n\nMIDDLEVELD, properly MIDDELVELD (d), the mixed country lying between the\nHigh veld and the Bushveld.\n\nNEK-STROP (d), the neck-strap, or reim, which, attached to the\nyokeskeys, keeps the yoke in place.\n\nNIX (d), nothing (from D. _niets_).\n\nORIBI (n), a small antelope (_Ourebia scoparia_).  Weight, 30 pounds;\nheight, 24 inches; horns, 6 inches.\n\nOUTSPAN, properly UITSPAN (d), to unyoke or unharness; also the camp\nwhere one has outspanned, and places where it is customary, or by law\npermitted, to outspan.\n\nPAUW (_pronounced_ pow) (d), the great bustard (_literally_ peacock).\n\nPANDA, properly 'MPANDE (n), the third of the great Zulu kings.\n\nPEZULU (n), on top, up, above.\n\nPARTRIDGE, PHEASANT, names applied somewhat loosely to various species\nof francolin.\n\nPOORT (_pronounced_ pooh-rt) (d), a gap or gorge in a range of hills\n(_literally_ gate).\n\nQUAGGA, ZEBRA (correctly applied to _Equus quagga_, now extinct, but\nstill applied to the various species of zebra found in South Africa).\n\nREIM (_pronounced_ reem) (d), a stout strip of raw hide.\n\nREIMPJE (_pronounced_ reempy) (d), a small reim.\n\nRIETBUCK, properly (d) Rietbok (_pronounced_ reet-buck), reed buck\n(_Cervicapra arundinum_).  Height, 3 feet 6 inches; gross weight, 140\npounds; horns, male only, up to 16 inches.\n\nSABLE ANTELOPE (_Hippotragus niger_; Dutch, _zwaart witpens_).  Habitat,\nbushveld.  Height, 4 feet 6 inches; weight, 350 pounds; horns, up to 48\ninches on curve.\n\nSAKUBONA (n), Zulu equivalent of `Good-day.'\n\nSALTED HORSE, one which has had horse-sickness, and is thus considered\nimmune (as in small-pox); hence `salted' is freely used colloquially as\nmeaning acclimatised, tough, hardened, etc.\n\nSCHANS (_pronounced_ skaans) (d), a stone or earth breastwork for\ndefence, very common in old native wars.\n\nSCHELM (d), a rascal; like Scotch skellum.\n\nSCHERM (_pronounced_ skarem) a protection of bush or trees, usually\nagainst wild animals.\n\nSJAMBOK (_pronounced_ in English shambok, in Dutch saam-bok) (d),\ntapering raw-hide whip made from rhinoceros, hippopotamus, or giraffe\nskin.\n\nSKEY (_pronounced_ skay), a yokeskey; short for Dutch _jukskei_.\n\nSLOOT (d), a ditch.\n\nSPAN (d), a team.\n\nSPOOR (d), footprints; also a trail of man, animal, or vehicle.\n\nSPRINGBUCK, properly SPRINGBOK (d), a small antelope (_Antidorcas\n(Gazella) euchore_).  Habitat, high veld and other open grass country.\nHeight, 30 inches; weight, up to 90 pounds; horns, 19 inches (literally.\njumping buck).\n\nSPRUIT (_pronounced_ sprait; also commonly, but incorrectly, sproot)\n(d), a stream.\n\nSQUIRREL, or TREE Rat, native name 'MCHINAAND (_Funisciurus palliatus_).\n\nSTEMBUCK (Cape Dutch, _stembok_ or _steinbok_, from the pure Dutch\n_steenbok_, the Alpine ibex), a small antelope (_Raphicerus\ncampestais_).  Height, 22 inches; weight, 25 pounds; horns, 5 inches.\n\nSTOEP (_pronounced_ stoop) (d), a raised promenade or paved verandah in\nfront or at sides of a house.\n\nTAMBUKI GRASS, also TAMBOOKIE, and sometimes TAMBUTI (n), a very rank\ngrass; in places reaches 15 feet high and stem diameter half inch.\n\nTICK, or RHINOCEROS, BIRD, the `ox-pecker' (_Buphaga Africana_).\n\nTIGER.  In South Africa the leopard is generally called a tiger; first\nso described by the Dutch--_tijger_.\n\nTOCK-TOCKIE, a slow-moving beetle, incapable of flight.  Gets its name\nfrom its means of signalling by rapping the abdomen on the ground\n(_tenebrionid_ beetle of the genus _Psammodes_).\n\nTREK (d) (_literally_ to pull), to move off or go on a journey; a\njourney, an expedition--_eg_, the Great Trek (or exodus of Boers from\nCape Colony, 1836-48); also, and commonly, the time, distance, or\njourney from one outspan to another.\n\nTREK GEAR, the traction gear, chain, yokes, etc, of a waggon.  The Boer\npioneers had no chains, and used reims plaited into a stout `rope';\nhence _trek-touw_, or pulling-rope.\n\nTSESSEBE, an antelope, one of the hartebeeste family (_Damaliscus\nlunatus_; Dutch, bastard hartebeeste).  Height, 48 inches; weight. 300\npounds; horns, 15 inches.\n\nTSETSE FLY, a grey fly, little larger than the common house-fly, whose\nbite is fatal to domesticated animals.\n\nTWIGGLE, little people's word for the excited movement of a small dog's\ntail, believed to be a combination of wriggle and twiddle.\n\nUMFAAN (n), a boy.\n\nUMGANAAM (n), my friend.\n\nUMLUNGU (n), the native word to describe a white man.\n\nVELD (_pronounced_ felt) (d), the open or unoccupied country;\nuncultivated or grazing land.\n\nVLEI (_pronounced_ flay) (d), a small, shallow lake, a swamp, a\ndepression intermittently damp, a water meadow.\n\nVOORLOOPER (d) (_literally_ front walker), the leader, the boy who leads\nthe front oxen; the _pat'-intambu_ (Zulu for `take the reim').\n\nVOORSLAG (_pronounced_ foor-slaach) (d) (_literally_ front lash or\nskin), the strip of buck hide which forms the fine end of a whip-lash.\n\nWATERBUCK (_Cobus ellipsiprymnus_; Dutch, _kring-gat_).  Height, 48\ninches; weight, 350 pounds; horns, males only, 36 inches.\n\nWILDEBEESTE (_pronounced_ vill-de-beast) (d) (_literally_ wild cattle),\nthe brindled gnu, blue wildebeeste (_Connochaetes taurinus_).  Height, 4\nfeet 6 inches; weight, 400 pounds; horns, 30 inches.\n\nWILD DOG, the `Cape hunting dog' (_Lycaon pictus_).\n\nWOODEN ORANGE, fruit of the klapper (a species of _Strychnos_).\n\nWOLF, the usual name for the hyena, derived from _tijger-wolf_, the pure\nDutch name for the spotted hyena.\n\nYOKESKEY, the wooden slat which, coupled by nekstrops, holds the yoke in\nplace.","title":"Jock of the Bushveld","tradition":"folklore-oral-tradition","translated_text":null,"word_count":131025}