“And if we had matches we dare not strike them for fear of the light being seen by one of the Boer patrols.”
“Yes,” said West, with another sigh. “I suppose they are everywhere now!”
At that moment the ponies stopped short, spun round, almost unseating their riders, and went off at full speed back along the way they had come; and it was some minutes before they could be checked and soothed and patted back into a walk.
“The country isn’t quite civilised yet,” said West; “fancy lions being so near the line of a railway. Hark; there he goes again!”
For once more the peculiar barking roar of a lion came from a distance, making the air seem to quiver and the ponies turn restless again and begin to snort with dread.
“Steady, boys, steady!” said Ingleborough soothingly to the two steeds. “Don’t you know that we’ve got a couple of patent foreign rifles, and that they would be more than a match for any lion that ever lived?”
“If we shot straight!” said West banteringly. “There he goes again! How near do you think that fellow is?”
“Quiet, boy!” cried Ingleborough, leaning forward and patting his pony on the neck, with satisfactory results. “How far? It’s impossible to say! I’ve heard performers who called themselves ventriloquists, but their tricks are nothing to the roaring of a lion. It’s about the most deceptive sound I know. One time it’s like thunder, and another it’s like Bottom the Weaver.”
“Like what?” cried West.
“The gentleman I named who played lion, and for fear of frightening the ladies said he would roar him as gently as a sucking dove. Now then, what’s to be done?”