Kalingalunga soon calmed them down by letting them know that he was painted for a private, not a national feud. He gave them no further information. I suspect he was too keen a sportsman to put others on the scent of his game. He went all through the camp, and ascertained from the stragglers that no men answering the description of George and Robinson had passed out of the wood.
“They are in the wood,” said he
He then ordered a great fire—bade Jem dry his clothes and eat; he collected two of his wives and committed Jem to their care, and glided like a panther into the wood.
What with the great heat succeeding to the great cold, and the great supper the gins gave him, Jem fell fast asleep. It was near daylight when a hand was laid on his shoulder, and there was Kalingalunga.
“Not a track on the snow.”
“No? then let us hope they are not in the wood.”
The hunter hung his head.
“Me tink they are in the wood,” said he, gravely.
Jem groaned, “Then they are lying under the soil of it or in some dark pit.”
Kalingalunga reflected. He replied to this effect: