“There are no salmon here, Dinny,” said Dick.
“Then there are some good big fish, anyhow,” said Dinny; and he went off some fifty or sixty yards to where the narrow little stream ran at the bottom of rather a steep declivity.
“Mind you don’t have any of the gintlemen throwing stones at you, Dinny,” shouted Dick.
“Ah, you’d better be careful,” said Mr Rogers, smiling; “Those rocks look a likely place for baboons.”
“Whist, schah!” exclaimed Dinny contemptuously; “as if I’d be afraid of a monkey;” and he soon disappeared from sight.
The soft coolness of the evening was creeping on, the occupants of the little camp were restfully listening to the crop, crop! of the cattle, and Mr Rogers was about to give orders for them to be driven into the kraal, when the peace of the camp was broken by a loud cry from towards the little river.
“Murther! help! masther dear. Help, or it’s dead I’ll be!” yelled the familiar voice of Dinny.
Guns always lay handy, and they were seized, and all ran towards where Dinny was yelling for help, a sharp look out being kept for baboons.
“I dare say they’ve attacked him,” said Mr Rogers. “They are very vicious, and tremendously strong. Why, where is he? Dinny! Dinny!”