“That’s it, sir,” cried Bob Bacon. “I can see him too. Here, don’t waggle the light about like that, Buck. Look, gentlemen; there arn’t much sperrit left in him, for he’s lying up against the side there as quiet as a mouse.”
“Quiet enough,” said the doctor; “but take care. The brute may have life enough left in it to scratch.”
“Not him, sir,” said Buck, who now took a couple of steps forward, shaking the light to and fro to make it flare more brightly. “He arn’t got much scrat left in him, sir.”
“What is it—an old leopard?”
“No, sir. There, I can see quite plain now. It’s one of them baboons, same as live on some of these kopjes; and a whacker too, and as grey as a Devon badger. Here, Bob Bacon, as you are so precious anxious to have the light, catch hold. I will soon see whether he will scratch or not.”
“What are you going to do, man?” cried the doctor, as the exchange of torchbearer was effected.
“Lug him out, sir.”
“No, no! You will get torn.”
“Nay, sir. He’s got no scrat in him.”
“Perhaps not, Buck,” said Mark excitedly, “but I have read that those things can bite like a dog. Stand still and let me shoot.”