Chapter Twelve.
Dyke is aggrieved.
“Fine chance for a lion,” said Emson, as at dusk he left the oxen, being slowly driven by Kaffir Jack, and cantered off to his left to draw rein in front of Dyke, the boy sitting upright with a start.
“Eh?”
“I say a fine chance for a lion,” cried Emson again.
“No: couldn’t catch,”—snore.
“Here! Hi! Little one. Wake up!” cried Emson.
“Yes; all right!—What’s the matter?”
“Matter? why, you’re asleep, you stupid fellow: a lion might have come upon you in that state.”