“Go and look at the footprints by the pool, my boy, and answer that question for yourself,” said Mr Rogers, smiling.
But Jack did not go. He knew that he had asked a foolish question, so he passed it off.
The day was wonderfully hot, and quietly as they went, they felt scorched, while Pompey and Caesar, who were taken as a treat, ran with their tongues lolling out, and stopped to drink at every pool they passed.
The route chosen was a different one this day, leading over a wide undulating plain covered with an enormous thickness of rough herbage, and dotted here and there with bushes. It was just the place to expect to find a lion—offering the beast abundant chances for concealment; but after being out four hours, they had seen nothing but antelopes, at which they did not care to fire, since it would only have been to add a fresh skin to their collection, and glut some of the vultures flying slowly overhead. The glass was used again and again in vain, and at last, so as to cover a wider view, Mr Rogers rode away about a mile to the left, bidding his sons mind the land-marks so as to be able to reach the waggon again.
Dick and Jack did not separate, and after a glance round to see if they could make out any game, they resigned themselves to their fate, and rode gently along.
“I’m hotter and more tired than I have ever been since we came out,” cried Jack.
“So am I,” said Dick. “Let’s sling our guns over our shoulders. Oh, isn’t it hot.”
“If we sling our rifles we shall come upon a lion, or something big.”
“Well, let us. I’m too hot to shoot, and he’d be too hot to attack. What does that little bird keep flying to us for, and then going away?”
“Got a nest somewhere here, and afraid we shall take its young.”