“How many miles away was it?” asked Berselius of the collected porters.
“Nkoto, nkoto (Very many, very many),” the answer came in a chorus, for a group of savages, if they have the same idea in common, will all shout together in response to an answer, like one man.
“We did not know,” came the irrelevant answer in chorus.
Berselius knew quite well that they had not told simply from heedlessness and want of initiative. He would have flogged the whole lot soundly, but he wanted them fresh for the morrow’s work. Cutting down their rations would but weaken them, and as for threatening to dock their pay, such a threat has no effect on a savage.
“Look!” said Berselius.
He had just dismissed the porters with a reprimand when his keen eye caught sight of something far up the glade. It wanted an hour of sunset.
Adams, following the direction in which Berselius was gazing, saw, a great distance off, to judge by the diminishing size of the thorn trees, a form that made his heart to leap in him.
Massive and motionless, a great creature stood humped in the level light; the twin horns back-curving and silhouetted against the sky told him at once what it was.
“Bull rhinoceros,” said Berselius. “Been lying up in the thick stuff all day; come out to feed.” He made a sign to Félix who, knowing exactly what was wanted, dived into the tent and came back with a .400 cordite rifle and Adams’s elephant gun.