Tracked by an Enemy.
They did not have a long sleep, for Mr Rogers soon roused them to say that breakfast was ready; which meal being discussed, the oxen were in-spanned, and the horses mounted, so as to have a good long trek towards the Limpopo, or Crocodile River, before the heat of the day.
Before leaving their camp the boys had a good look round with the General, in the expectation and hope of seeing the lion at which Jack had shot, lying dead. But though he felt certain that he had hit the monster, and though footprints were about in all directions, there was no dead lion, and they had to hope for better luck the next time.
“I don’t care,” said Jack discontentedly; “I’m as sure as can be that this gun don’t shoot straight.”
“Try again, Jack,” said his father, laughing.
And on they walked, over what was now a plain covered with great coarse, reedy grass, such as would afford plenty of cover for game.
This, however, was scarce, and beyond the boys knocking down three or four large birds of the partridge kind, there was very little done.
The General, for some reason which he did not explain, had taken his great Zulu shield from where it hung behind one of the waggon-wheels, and, armed with a couple of assegais, kept making expeditions to right and left—and quite as often hung back, watchfully keeping an eye to the rear.
It was a case of man’s cunning against that of a beast; and
