“Why, you foolish boy,” he exclaimed, “it was not likely that you would hit one of those flying bok. It is a matter of long practice; and even the Boers, who have studied such shooting for years, often miss.”
“But you see, father, I did make such a dreadful mess of it,” pleaded Jack. “I came off my horse; and then I shot over and over again, and missed. I can’t help feeling what a muddle I made.”
“Well, for my part,” said his father, “I am rather glad that you failed. If you had succeeded, my boy, without effort at the first trial, it would have made you careless. These failures will teach you the necessity for using care, and trying to perfect yourself as a marksman.”
“But there’ll be no bok for dinner,” said Jack ruefully.
“Never mind,” replied Mr Rogers. “I daresay the boys will bring in something.”
He was right, for Coffee and Chicory brought in six great plain partridges, which they had knocked down with their kiris, and these were roasted at the midday meal, and eaten with the appetite found in the desert.
As the day wore on, and after the refreshed oxen were once more doing their duty, the effects of the last night’s scare began to show itself, Peter, Dirk, and Dinny declaring that they had seen lions creeping after the waggon in the distance, ready to pounce upon the oxen as soon as it was dark.
Dirk reported this to Mr Rogers, who gave them all a good, talking to about their cowardice.
“Why, look at these Zulu boys,” he cried; “they don’t show any fear, while you grown men are almost as bad as children.”
“Sure, sor, an’ the Zulu boys don’t know any better,” said Dinny. “They’re little better than the bastes themselves.”