“Yes. What is it? Oh, I am so sleepy! Uncle snoring.”
“There it is again!” cried Mark wildly.
“Well, I don’t care,” cried Dean angrily, and he dragged his blankets over his head. “Hullo! I say! There’s something the matter;” and the boy now rose to his knees. “Here, where are the guns?”
“I don’t know. Yes, I do,” cried Mark, feeling about. “I have got one—yes—here’s yours. Let’s get to the door.”
“No, stop. Listen!” and Dean caught his cousin by the arm. “It’s a lion. I’m sure of it.”
“So am I,” cried Mark—“a dozen of them. Oh, Dean, Dean! Hark at the poor bullocks! They are pulling them down, and they’ll be killing those ponies. Here, let go.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Going outside to shoot.”
“No, no; don’t do that, or we shall have them springing in here.”
“But—”