"A rod, iron, a gat—you know—a gun."
"Why didn't you say so in the first place?" laughed Smith. "Why don't you try talking English once in a while?"
"Geeze!" exclaimed Danny. "You're a great guy to talk about a guy talkin' English. What's that you pulled on me the other day when we was crossin' that open rollin' country? I learned that by heart—'a country of low relief in an advanced stage of mature dissection'—an' you talk about me talkin' English! You and your thrust faults and escarpments, your calderas and solfataras—geeze!"
"Well, you're learning, Danny."
"Learnin' what? Every racket has its own lingo. What good is your line to me? But every guy wants to know what a rod is—if he knows what's good for his health."
"From what Ogonyo tells me it may be just as well to continue 'packing your rod,'" said Smith.
"How come?"
"He says we're getting into lion country. We may even find them near here. They don't often frequent jungles, but we're only about a day's march to more open terrain."
"Whatever that is. Talk English. Geeze! What was that?" A series of coughing grunts rose from somewhere in the solid black wall of jungle that surrounded the camp, to be followed by a thunderous roar that shook the earth.
"Simba!" cried one of the blacks, and immediately a half dozen men hastened to add fuel to the fires.