“Ha! ha! ha! So you’ve been looting too, have you? Well, Raggy, get your parcel and let us be off. Lead on, Nanungamanoo.”
“La! massa,” said Raggy, grinning all over, “suppose I hab one long name like dat nigger, I cut it all up into leetle pieces, and hab one for ebery day in de week.”
The march was now recommenced.
The Somali trode gingerly on ahead, picking his way through the flowery sward, as if afraid to leave the slightest trail.
Harry and Raggy came up behind.
It was evident the Somali was now making a détour; at all events they shortly found themselves at the river, which was here broad and shallow. This they forded, taking care to keep their packs and rifles dry.
Into a weird-looking bit of forest they now plunged.
A weird-looking forest indeed. Every tree seemed an ogre in the moonlight. Yet the air was heavily odorous with the sweet breath of some species of mimosa bloom, and the ground was for the most part free from undergrowth.
The forest grew darker and darker as they proceeded, and they could hear a lion growl in the distance. He was far away, yet Harry clutched his rifle and drew little Raggy close up to his side.
He was not sorry when the moonlight shone down on them once more through the branches of a baobab tree. Here they stopped to breathe.