“Near go that, Ernest,” said the former.
Ernest nodded in reply. He could not speak.
“By Jove! where is Roger?” he went on, turning pale as he missed his son for the first time.
But at this moment that young gentleman hove in sight, and, recovering from his fright when he saw that the great animal was stone-dead, rushed up with yells of exultation, and, climbing on to the upper tusk, began to point out where he had hit him.
Meanwhile Mr. Alston had extracted the story of the adventure from Ernest.
“You young rascal,” he said to his son, “come off that tusk. Do you know that if it had not been for Mr. Kershaw here, who courted almost certain death to save you from the results of your own folly, you would be as dead as that elephant and as flat as a biscuit? Come down, sir, and offer up your thanks to Providence and Mr. Kershaw that you have a sound square inch of skin left on your worthless young body!”
Roger descended accordingly, considerably crestfallen.
“Never you mind, Roger; that was a most rattling good shot of yours at his knee,” said Ernest, who had now got his breath again. “You would not do it again if you fired at elephants for a week.”
And so the matter passed off; but afterwards Mr. Alston thanked Ernest with tears in his eyes for saving his son’s life.
This was the first elephant they killed, and also the largest. It measured ten feet eleven inches at the shoulder, and the tusks weighed, when dried out, about sixty pounds each.