For below, in the near distance, two double reports had rung out, then a single one. The yelling of the dogs, and the whooping of the beaters had arrived at a climax of clamour, then suddenly ceased.
“Look out,” exclaimed Edala excitedly and in a low tone, as she slid from her horse. “There’s something coming out here. No. It has broken back, whatever it is—” noting the tremulous line among the branches beneath and an occasional faint thud as of hoofs. “Well, let’s go down and see what they’ve got.”
On reaching the spot, where all now had foregathered, it transpired that Prior had turned over two bushbuck ewes, while Elvesdon pleaded guilty to shamefully missing a ram with both barrels.
“Never mind, we’ve not done so badly,” pronounced Thornhill. “Four bucks to four guns out of one kloof isn’t altogether rotten. Edala, what have you got there? A vaal koorhaan, by the living Jingo. Sitting or on the wing?”
“As if I should answer that!” was the reply, in scathing accents.
“She shot it from the saddle too,” put in Evelyn.
“From the saddle did she? Well done, little girl. Well, that is something like.”
Prior gave a loud whistle.
“By Jingo, I should think it was! Why, it’s a record, Miss Thornhill.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Old Witvoet is very steady,” said the girl. “It’s like shooting from an armchair.”