“Shot? He isn’t shot. I ran him down,” cried Dick.
“Don’t kill him, then,” cried Jack.
“Not I. Shall I let him go?”
“No, no,” cried Jack. “Let’s take him back, and tame him.”
“I think the taming is already done,” said Mr Rogers. “Here, halter him round the neck, and muzzle him with this, and you can tie another thong on at the other side.”
As he spoke he took a tethering halter from his saddle-bow; it was slipped over the giraffe’s head, another cord attached so that it could be held on either side; and when this was done, Mr Rogers held one rope, Jack the other, and Dick got off the giraffe on the side farthest from its legs.
But there was no more kick left in the tall creature, which raised its head, looking humbly at its captors, and then slowly rose, shivering, and as gentle as a lamb.
“There, Dick, sling your gun and mount,” cried his father; “unless you would rather ride the giraffe.”
“Oh, no, thank you,” said Dick, slinging his gun and picking up his hat, prior to mounting his docile cob, after which his father handed him the end of the rope.
After a sniff or two at their tall companion, the two cobs walked gently on forward, with the giraffe towering up between. The poor beast made no objection to its captivity, beyond sighing a little, but gazed dolefully at its leaders in turn; the only difficulty experienced in getting it to the waggon, being how to accommodate the horses’ stride to that of the captive, which stalked contentedly along, with Mr Rogers bringing up the rear.