“Shure an’ it’s a big shtone, and nothing else, and—murther, it’s moving, and coming here.”
Dinny hardly knew himself how he did it, but in a kind of desperation he took aim at the rhinoceros, and drew trigger.
The result was a sharp crack, that seemed to echo into distance far away, and mingled with the echoes there was a furious grunting roar.
For Dinny had hit the rhinoceros. In fact, aiming at it as he did, with the barrel of his piece upon the large trunk, it would have been almost impossible to miss. But as he heard the roar Dinny turned and ran, stumbled, saved himself, and hid behind a tree.
“Murther, but it’s awful work,” he muttered, as his trembling fingers placed a second cartridge in the rifle.
Then, all being silent, Dinny stole out, and peering cautiously before him, crept towards the prostrate tree.
“Shure, I belave I’ve shot him dead,” he muttered, as he peered out into the open glade; but as he showed his face in the moonlight there was a furious snort, and Dinny turned and fled; for the rhinoceros charged right at the white face behind the prostrate tree, thrusting its monstrous head between the two huge limbs; and then, in spite of its prodigious strength being unable to get any further, it drew back, charged again, placed one hoof on the tree—but its efforts were in vain. Then it wrenched its head back, and retiring a short distance charged once more, Dinny watching it from behind a tree with blanched face and hands, trembling with excitement.
A practised hunter would have sent bullet after bullet crashing into the monster’s brain; but Dinny was not practised, and it was not until he had thoroughly convinced himself that the animal could not get through, that he stole out, and bending down, cautiously advanced nearer and nearer to the huge
beast, which snorted, and grunted, and squealed in its futile efforts to get at its assailant.