“You haven’t seen one in a rage, old fellow,” said Emson good-humouredly.
“I don’t believe they’d be anything much if they were,” said Dyke contemptuously. “They always seem to me to be creeping and sneaking about like a cat after a mouse. Now look at those great strong things going off like that, as soon as they see us, instead of roaring at us and driving us away.”
“Smell powder, perhaps, and are afraid of the guns.”
“Well, but if they did, that isn’t being brave as a lion, Joe. Why, when they killed the white ox, there were four of them, and they did it in the dark. I don’t believe when you shot that the bullet went near either of the brutes.”
“No, but we scared them off.”
“They killed the poor old bullock first, though.”
“Well, didn’t that give you a good idea of a lion’s strength; the poor beast’s neck was broken.”
“Let’s show them to-day that we are stronger, and break their necks,” said Dyke. “Look out: they’re gone.” For the two great beasts suddenly plunged into a patch of broken ground, where great blocks of granite stood up from among the bushes, and sheltered them with larger growth.
It was the only hiding-place in sight, and for this the lions had made, and now disappeared.
“We shan’t get a shot at them now, old chap,” cried Emson; “they lie as snug as rats among those bushes. We want old Duke here.”