"It's something to have got the sheep," said John. "But what was the beggars' game? They couldn't have seen us after them, and they wouldn't drive the whole flock so far for the sake of cutting up one."
"Sheer devilry, perhaps," suggested Ferrier. "They knew we'd overtake 'em before they had got very far, and I dare say are chuckling at having given us all the trouble for nothing. Rather a poor game, one would think."
"Well, we'd better drive the sheep home. It's a long march, and they'll be pretty well done up by the time we get there."
They remounted, and headed the flock towards the farm. Sheep, as every one knows, and as John had experienced on the road to Nairobi, are very slow travellers.
"By Jove!" said Ferrier, when they had marched for an hour and covered perhaps two miles, "I begin to understand what your droving job was like. I should never have had the patience."
"I'd give anything for a good sheep-dog. I must ask my father to bring one with him--or send one, if he doesn't intend to come himself."
It was on the verge of nightfall when, tired and hungry, they came to the outskirts of the farm. They heard the bleating of the animals that had been already penned, and the flock, weary as they were, moved a little faster to rejoin their kind. Coming to the gate of the boma, John was surprised to find it open, having given strict orders that it should always be closed immediately after the animals were brought in for the night. There was not a man to be seen. Having driven the sheep into their pens, they hurried on towards the farm buildings.
"What a smell of wood smoke!" said Ferrier, sniffing.
"Yes; I hope they haven't set fire to anything. Ah! here's Wasama."
The Masai came running towards them, followed by his son, the Indians, Coja and Lulu, all in great haste.