"I say, Poeskop," said Guy, who had finished his diary of the day's doings, "is it true that the jackal is the lion's provider, and goes ahead for him and smells out his food, and lets his master know of it?"
The Bushman squatted down near the fire, and smiled a broad smile that wrinkled up his whole face and nearly concealed his eyes.
"Nay, my baas," he said, "I don't think that. But the lion knows from the jackal's cry when he winds food, and comes after him."
Now, from the winding river, not more than a quarter of a mile away, there rose the loud roar of a single lion, then another, and then yet another across the river. Then the three roared in unison, creating a volume of sound that was not only strangely majestic and awe-inspiring, but seemed to make the whole air vibrate and tremble.
"Ah!" said Poeskop quietly, "they won't hurt us to-night. When they roar like that, lions have full stomachs, and are not hungry. It is only when they purr and growl, or, still worse, when they are silent, that you must look out for them."
"They've got our wind, Poeskop," added Mr. Blakeney, "and they're telling one another of the fact."
"Ja, baas," said the Bushman. "They smell meat and oxen; but they won't touch us to-night--at least, I don't think so. There's the old manikin, the father lion--that was the first roar; then his wife; and then a young, nearly full-grown lion, their son."
"How on earth do you know that, Poeskop?" exclaimed Tom.
"Well, Baas Tom," replied the little man with a snigger, "I was brought up in a wild country, much wilder even than this, and I learned to know every sound in the veldt by day and night, and the voice of every beast, big and little. My food and my life depended on it; and my parents, and theirs before them, knew all about these things, and told me of them. You may say I sucked them in with my mother's milk."
"Talking about jackals," he went on musingly; "they are funny beasts--the cleverest and most quick-witted in the veldt. We Bushmen have many tales about them. Shall I tell you one?"