“Ah, there’s lots more here, sir,” cried Bob Bacon. “Mr Mark must have been knocked right into these bushes.”
“Why, Mark,” continued the doctor, “hold up your hands. They are all covered with blood. Scratches. I don’t find anything else the matter with you.”
“No,” said Mark; “I don’t think there is. I say, don’t make such a fuss about it. It makes one look so stupid. I say, father, I’m very sorry I fired.”
“Sorry!” said his father warmly. “Thank heaven, my boy, you are hurt no worse. The brute, whatever it was, must have been tremendously strong, and struck you down in its leap.”
“Well, it did come at me with a good bang, father, just the same moment that I fired. Here, who’s got my gun?”
“Gun,” said a voice, and the Illaka reached over to thrust it into the boy’s hand.
“Oh, thank you,” said Mark. “Mustn’t lose that. Here, you catch hold, Dean. Then you think I did right in firing, father?”
“Why, of course, my boy.”
“Here, that will do, doctor. I think I am all right.”
“Well, really, my boy, I am beginning to think so too. But I will keep watch the rest of the night with one of the men. You had better go and lie down now.”