Chapter Three.
An Ostrich Race.
“I say, Joe, you are right,” said Dyke now, with animation. “’Tisn’t half so hot riding.”
“Of course not. One begins to get moist, and the sun and air bring a feeling of coolness. It’s only the making a start. Now then, shall I try to cut him off?”
“No, no!” cried Dyke excitedly; “I’ll do it. I’ll make the brute run. You follow up.”
“Right!” said Emson; “that is, unless he tracks my way.”
“Oh, he won’t do that,” said Dyke, with a merry laugh, and in his animation the boy seemed to be quite transformed.
It was a good long ride to where the ostrich they sought to bring back to its pen could be seen stalking about, looking about as big as a guinea-fowl, but gradually growing taller and taller to its pursuers as they rode on. After a time it ceased picking about and ran first in one direction and then in another, as if undecided which line of country to take before leading its pursuers a wild race out and across the veldt.
By this time it looked fully four feet high; soon after it was fully five, as it stood up with its neck stretched out, and its weak, large-eyed, flat head turned to them with a malicious expression.