I listened, and sure enough I heard the shush, shush of something moving in the dead leaves and dry grass a little distance away. The oxen nearest the waggon showed signs of nervousness. I would have given much for a dog that night. The movement stopped. We all listened. The Rev. Bumpus began to mumble something from his perch aloft.
"For goodness sake shut up! How can I hear anything while you're making all that noise!"
He stopped.
"There he is, baas!"
"Where?"
"There!"
I listened, but could hear nothing. I listened for quite a long time. We all listened—we could hear nothing. The nearest ox lay down with a grunt, which meant that he, at any rate, was not much alarmed.
The Rev. Bumpus asked whether I thought he could come down, as on the top of the waggon-tent it was very cold. I was just about to say he could when again that shush, shush! I heard it myself distinctly this time. At once the chorus again of "There he is," in as many languages as there were natives huddled round me.
I decided that we must do something, make a sortie and get more wood; the fires had burnt low.
Presently we had four fires blazing away, the one in front of the leading oxen, one on either side of the waggon, and one at the tail-end of it. My boys' courage rose as the circle of light grew. They dashed here and there—strictly within the circle of light formed by the fires—collecting dry wood. After a while you could have roasted the proverbial ox at any one of the fires.