"It's a longish fifteen miles to that hill, I know," said Jack when we had ridden ten miles. "The map says fifteen miles; but we rode an hour last night and have ridden another to-day, and I'm hanged if we are any nearer than we were before."
This seemed true enough.
"It doesn't look what I should call 'conical,' either," I added. "I should call it a flat-topped thing if I were asked."
"So should I," said Jack; and we rode on.
"I wonder if there can be any mistake," I said, when we had ridden another ten miles and had stopped for a long rest.
"What kind of a mistake?" asked Jack.
"Why, about the map. That hill positively looks as far off as ever."
"It really does," Jack assented. "It must be a good fifty from the road."
"Perhaps the old boy wrote fifty and not fifteen, as we both seem to remember it," I said, fishing in my saddle-bag for the case which contained my map.
"I'm sure it's fifteen there," said Jack, "for I took the precaution of making a copy of both plan and instructions at Cape Town, in case those rascally friends of yours should get hold of our map and leave us to dig up all Africa for our treasure. I remember the wording quite well—it was 'westwards,' and fifteen miles to a conical hill, over a sandy plain."