He set the example by opening the breech of his piece, and carefully examining the cartridges before replacing them.
“All right,” he cried. “Now, look here, Dyke. Be ready and smart, if the brutes turn upon us to charge. Sit fast, and give Breezy his head then. No lion would overtake him. Only you must be prepared for a sharp wheel round, for if the brutes come on with a roar, your cob will spin about like a teetotum.”
But no satisfactory shot was obtained, for when they were about a quarter of a mile away, a big, dark-maned lion rose to his feet, stood staring at them for nearly a minute, and then started off at a canter, closely followed by its companion.
Dyke looked sharply round at his brother, as if to say, “Come on!” but Emson shook his head.
“Not to-day, old chap,” he cried. “We’re too busy. It would mean, too, a long gallop, tiring our horses before we could get a shot, and then we should not be in good condition for aiming.”
“Oh, but, Joe, I daresay that is the wretch that killed the white ox, and he is hanging about after another.”
“To be sure: I forgot that,” cried Emson excitedly. “Come on. But steady: we can’t lose sight of them, so let’s canter, and follow till they stand at bay or sneak into the bushes.”
That was more to Dyke’s taste, and side by side they followed the two lions, as the great tawny-looking beasts cantered over the plain, their heads down, tails drooping, and looking, as Dyke said, wonderfully like a couple of great cats sneaking off after being found out stealing cream.
There was no need to be silent, and Dyke kept on shouting remarks to his brother as they cantered on over the dry bush and sand.
“I don’t think much of lions, after all, Joe,” he said; “they’re not half kings of beasts like you see in pictures and read of in books.”