“Did he die?” I said, looking at the old man.
“He went away, sonny, but he said he’d wait for me, and he’ll keep his word.” There was a wistful look in the old man’s face as he looked towards the sea for some time in silence. “Yes; we slipped inter the wood, the honey-bird calling—the only sound outer the great stillness of the woods, ’cept for the crushing of the dried leaves under our tread, and the bird, flitting like a shadder from tree to tree, led us on deeper and deeper into the heart of the Borna Pass, till I pulled up to take bearings.
“‘We must get away back, little chap,’ I said.
“‘Then it’s not true what you tole me about the honey-bird?’ and he looked at me askance.
“‘Why not?’ said I.
“‘’Cos there he is a calling like mad, same as ever. I don’t believe he’s a honey-bird, and I don’t believe any of them stories you’ve been tellin’ me. You’re no pal of mine,’ he said, looking at me with a wrinkle ’tween his eyes.
“‘I’m thinkin’ we’re gettin’ too far from the lines,’ I sed, ‘and you ain’t used to the bush if Kaffirs were to come.’
“‘You’re afraid,’ he sed; ‘that’s what.’
“‘Come on,’ I sed, like a fool; and I went on, stooping through the bush, going mighty quick, and him panting after me. ‘I can smell honey,’ I sed, stopping short, and noticin’ that the bird had done his flight.
“‘Garn!’ he sed, wrinkling up his little nose. There was a holler tree standin’ up in a little clearin’ no bigger’n a room, and the hum of the bees came to us as we stood.