Chapter Nine.
“Seen any more Lions?”
Feeling half stunned, Mark rolled over and over, holding on to his piece the while, and struggled to his feet from amongst the bushes in which he had involuntarily sought refuge. His movements took him through a low, clinging cloud of the smoke of gunpowder, and he heard the rustling of trampled bushes as what he assumed to be his assailant dashed away. And now he grasped the fact that his shot had thoroughly roused the whole camp. The ponies were plunging and dragging at their raw hide lariats, and the oxen were upon their feet, alarmed in the darkness and about to break away; but Buck Denham, the English driver, and the Hottentot were yelling at them, and the black forelopers were adding their shrill cry as they aided in trying to pacify the beasts.
In the midst of the noise and confusion Mark heard his name loudly uttered, followed by the words, “Where are you, my lad? Speak up!”
“Here—here,” he panted.
“Oh, that’s right.”
“Not hurt, are you?” cried the doctor, as he grasped him by one arm, and he awoke to the fact that his breathless father had seized him by the other.
“Speak, my boy,” he cried. “Why don’t you speak? Where are you hurt?”