Contrary to his usual custom, Oscar slept late, and, in accordance with the orders he had given the night before, no one disturbed him.
He ate a light breakfast, passed a few hours in writing letters, which he knew he might never have an opportunity to send to those to whom they were addressed, and then wondered what he should do next.
He thought of the buffaloes, but his blood had had time to cool and he was in no hurry to put himself in the way of one of those dangerous animals.
He remembered the ostriches and elands—specimens of which he hoped to secure some day—but the bare thought of stalking the one or riding down the other while the sun was blazing so fiercely over his head was discouraging.
While he sat on the dissel-boom, debating the matter, his attention was attracted by a honey-bird, which, after trying in vain to arouse him by calling to him from a neighboring tree, flew down in front of his face and hovered there, just as a humming-bird does when he is inspecting a honeysuckle.
These little birds were very familiar, and had shown themselves to be so utterly devoid of fear that it was all Oscar could do to bring himself to shoot a couple of them for specimens.
"I say, McCann!" exclaimed Oscar, turning to his after-rider, who was lying at his ease under the wagon, "what sort of honey do you have in this country?"
"Oh, the honey is good enough," was the reply, "but it isn't worth the risk that one has to run to get it. You don't want anything to do with that rascally bird."
"Why not?" asked the boy.
"Because he will lead you into trouble."