"Gentle, jumping Johnson!" he hissed through his clenched teeth. "The devil take the blighted thing and chew it!"
With that he flung the spanner at the beast, and disregarding the blood spurting from his crushed thumb, fired the left barrel after the lion, which had bounded away into the darkness.
It was many days before that thumb healed.
I don't suppose that at the beginning of their partnership Fernie knew much or any more about firearms than Black did. It is probable that both were equally ignorant. This does not appear from the diary, but then allowance must be made for Black's deep admiration of Fernie and all he did.
Of course, Fernie had travelled much and, thanks to his training at sea, took more quickly to strange conditions and new things than Black. By dint of perseverance and the expenditure of much ammunition, he managed to keep the camp supplied with meat, but in those days game was thick upon the ground.
It is probable that if the job of keeping the larder full had been handed over to the driver of the donkey waggon, all would have fared better.
It is on record that under Fernie's tuition Black once tried his hand at shooting at a target. I say once advisedly, for he tried but once.
The rifle he used was, of course, Fernie's old Martini. The target was the bleached skull of an ox that they found by the roadside.
After showing his pupil how to hold the rifle, how to aim, and the use of sights, Fernie gave Black a handful of cartridges and walked off to set up the target.
Black was bubbling over with suppressed excitement. His heart beat rapidly. His mouth felt unaccountably dry. He almost made up his mind to borrow the rifle that very afternoon and go out and look for a buck. He pictured himself soon taking turn and turn about with Fernie in keeping the pot going.