To the great disappointment of the bird, the wild hive was left for that occasion, it being a pity to waste any of the honey, so they returned by another route towards the camp, the bird twittering and showing no little excitement at what it evidently looked upon as the folly of men at neglecting the sweet treasure.
The place was, however, marked, and with the intention of returning next day, armed with hatchet, fire, and a couple of zinc buckets to hold the spoil, they rode round the other side of the forest-patch, looking out for brightly-plumaged birds, whose skins could be added to the collection already made.
“Yes,” said Mr Rogers, “it is a curious natural history fact, but there it is, plainly enough. The bird knows that man can get at the honey when it cannot, so it leads him to the place hoping to get its share of the spoil.”
“Then you don’t think it is done out of love for man, father?” said Jack.
“What do you think, Dick?” said Mr Rogers.
“I think it’s done out of kindness to the bird,” said Dick, smiling.
“So do I,” replied his father, “and that bird its own self.”
“Look at the vultures,” cried Jack, just then, as quite a cloud of the great birds rose from a clump of trees on their left; and upon riding up there lay a great rhinoceros, or rather its remains, for, in spite of its tough hide, the carrion birds had been busy at it; but not so busy but that the marks of a couple of bullets were seen in its neck and fore-shoulder, from the effects of which it had evidently died.
“That’s our rhinoceros,” cried Jack eagerly.
“You shall have your claim, boys,” said Mr Rogers drily; “my shot shall not count.”