“A hundred—” Then Dick broke off as a new light struck him. “Why, man, you don’t mean to say I’ve turned over the bull?”
“Dead as a door-nail—and with one Martini bullet, too. He’s lying just yonder. There’s a hundred-pound fine, you know.”
A ringing hurrah broke the calm stillness of the night.
“Then it’s worth it,” cried Dick. “By the way, there’s something in that hole—a wolf or a wild dog.”
“Oh,” and the other cocked his rifle.
“No,” said Dick, with a hand on his arm. “We’ll let it off—as it let me off.”
“We’ll just have to finish the night here,” said Greenoak; “that is if you want that head to stick up in your ancestral halls, and it’s jolly well worth it. Otherwise the jackals and wild dogs’ll mangle it out of all recognition before morning.”
Dick readily agreed, and the two, collecting some dry wood, soon had a roaring fire under way.
“Why, this is your first camp, Dick,” said Greenoak, reaching out a handful of tobacco for him to fill from, and then filling up himself.
“Rather,” was the answer. “Oh, it’s glorious—glorious,” jumping up again to go and look at the mighty beast, lying there but a few yards off in the moonlight. Harley Greenoak laughed.