Mine was now a life of peril and hardship; adventures to me were of everyday occurrence; I carried my life in my hand; I grew as wily as a jackal, and I hope as bold as a lion. I take no credit to myself for being bold; I had to be so.
The king and I continued friends. At the end of the sixth year of my captivity, Jooma died. He died from wounds received at the horns of a wild buffalo in the forest.
This buffalo-hunting had for me a very great charm, and it certainly was not unattended with danger, for there were times when, headed by an old bull or two, a whole herd of these animals would charge down upon us. This was nothing to me. I could climb trees as well as most monkeys, so I got out of harm’s way, but it was hard upon the savages, who were not always so nimble.
Jooma was terribly tossed and wounded by a bull, and he died at the tree foot. He called me to him before his eyes were for ever closed, and asked me to forgive him for all the ill he had done me, and tried to do me.
“I have been to you one ver bad fellow,” said poor Jooma; “I have want to kill you plenty time. Now I die. You forgive Jooma?”
“I do, Jooma,” I said, and pressed his cold hard hand.
“Ver well,” said the lad, faintly and slowly. “Now I die. Now, I go home—go home—home.”
We buried him just where he lay, between the gnarled roots of a great forest tree, and piled wood over the grave to keep the sneaking jackals at bay.