It was a long walk to the glade where the lion was shot, but they killed a couple of the dangerous puff-adders, and shot three
or four beautiful birds, besides bringing down a small gazelle, which they protected with sticks to keep off the vultures. But the most interesting part of their journey was during the first mile of their way. They had all separated so as to look out for game, and were crossing a patch of dense dried-up yellow grass where they expected to spring a large bird or two, when, all at once, something of a rich yellow and brown darted out before Dick, leaving one clump to make for another, closely followed by a little dun-coloured animal, evidently its young.
Dick’s rifle was to his shoulder on the instant, and a bullet through the animal laid it low, while the young one leaped upon it, and turned and snarled, and spat at its mother’s slayer.
“Why it’s the leopard that came after poor Rough’un, I’ll be bound,” cried Jack, coming up. “It has got a young one, and that’s what made it so daring. Hullo, little chap! We’ll take you back for a pet.”
But the young leopard was already in a pet, and it scratched, and swore, and behaved so cat-like, that it was no easy task to secure it. This, however, was done in a strong game-bag, which was hung in a tree while the mother was skinned for the sake of her beautiful hide.
As they neared the place where Jack’s lion lay, Dick drew his brother’s attention to the vultures that were winging their way overhead.
“You’ll see if they haven’t been at your lion,” he said.
He proved a true prophet, for as they drew near the glade—Jack feeling a strange chill of horror as he recalled the last night’s adventure—first one and then another vulture flew up, and when Chicory made a dash forward they rose in a cloud.
“Your skin’s spoiled, Jack,” said his brother.