"Where?"
"Close to the leading oxen."
Had she seen any?
"No, nothing," said his wife.
Had the driver seen the lion?
"Ja, baas, two."
At that moment I nearly jumped out of my skin. The driver, from under the waggon, fired again; his bullet must have missed my legs by inches only. I had to use un-Sunday School language before I could make the Rev. Bumpus stop his din from the top of the waggon; he was terrified, and showed it without shame or reserve. I took the rifle from the driver. Lions at night are bad enough, but the additional risk of a scared native armed with a Martini is a little too much.
"What the devil did you let fly for?"
"At the lion, baas."
"Where?"