“But just think,” persisted Bob, “of what a gorgeous picture it would make. Imagine sitting in a theatre at home and suddenly seeing a huge rhino come lumbering toward you, as if he were going to charge right out of the screen and into the audience.”
“Talk to Jack,” said Frank coolly. “I can’t hear you. Whoo, it’s hot. Wish the battle would begin.”
Close at hand in the marsh, as if his words had been a signal, a tremendous uproar of cries broke out interspersed with the racheting sound of the clappers in the hands of the native beaters.
“Better get ready,” advised Bob. “That sounds pretty close.”
Frank leaped to his feet, all eagerness, the lassitude of the moment before forgotten, and took his place at the camera.
“See anything yet?” he called.
“No,” said Bob. “And I don’t hear any shots, either. So I suppose Jack’s father isn’t potting away. But what an infernal din those beaters are putting up.”
The noise died down, became more remote, and Frank relaxed his tense attitude at the camera, while Bob once more laid down his rifle.
“Huh. Guess the rhino headed for another direction.”
“I suppose so,” said Frank. “Certainly the beaters are withdrawing.”