"You bet your life we will! Go to sleep."
It was their last sleep in the comfortable tent for many a night.
CHAPTER XIII
THE PIGMY VILLAGE
As Mr. Wallace had predicted, they were up long before the sun. After a hasty breakfast by candle light John discarded his role of chef and buckled on a cartridge belt. As their gun-bearers and a dozen porters assembled, two hunters came in from the village to guide them to the place where the giraffes had been seen and the boys bade Mr. Wallace farewell.
A five-mile walk through rough and thickly wooded African country is not a light task by any means. In the main they followed trails where heavy animals had beaten down the thick grass and left openings through the bush. They saw little game for the first hour, although once a big python slid across the path and Burt missed him.
"Won't we have a yarn when we get home?" said Burt, gleefully. "We'll run some great little old stories in the high school paper next year, eh?"
"Bet your life!" replied Critch. "I'd like to bottle some o' them blamed little red ants and use 'em for initiations. Wouldn't they make the fellows squirm?"
"Say, don't forget to swap some of Mvita's men out o' their stuff. We want to take home a good bunch o' them spears, Critch. A couple o' shields and knives'd go great too."
"No talk-talk now, massa Burt!" John turned to them warningly. "Him giraffe not beri far. Maybe hear."
The hunters had slipped through the tall grass and vanished. It was now two hours after daylight and the boys knew they must be getting near the hunting grounds. They were no longer in the plain and were advancing by a buffalo-trail through a low jungle-growth not far from a small river.