Once and again from the shore side of the scouts’ camp-fire, from among the shimmering sand-hills, came the weaker, more snappy bark of the little dog-fox, as he prowled the dunes.
The dazzling Sugarloaf Pillar near the mouth of the river was wrapped in night’s mantle. But lights flickered out in two of the handsome summer bungalows which the boys had noticed, standing at some distance from their camping-ground, looming high above the beach, erected upon stilt-like props driven into the sandy soil.
“Those houses were only built last spring; they’re occupied for the first time this summer,” said Kenjo Red, who was more familiar with this region than the others. “Say! let’s chant our African war-song, fellows. This is just the night for it.” And the barbaric chant rang weirdly among the sand-hills, the leader shouting the first line, his companions answering with the other three, to the accompaniment of the flames’ crackle and the night calls of bird and beast:—
“Een gonyâma—gonyâma.
Invoboo!
Yah bô! Yah bô
Invoboo!”
Presently the bark of the dog-fox was heard farther off. He knew, the stealthy slyboots, that he was not the only lone prowler among the pale dunes that night who listened intently to the boisterous revelry round the scouts’ camp-fire.
His keen sense of smell informed him that behind one plumed sand-hill, between his own trotting form and the noisy company in the firelight, there lurked a solitary man-figure.
But he, the sandy-coated little trotter from burrow to burrow, could neither hear nor interpret the sound, half groan, half oath, savagely envious, that escaped from the other night-prowler’s lips as he listened to the boys’ voices.
Silence, broken only by ringing snatches of laughter, reigned temporarily over the dunes. Then once again it blossomed into song:—
“Hurrah for the brave, hurrah for the good,
Hurrah for the pure in heart!
At duty’s call, with a smile for all,
The Scout will do his part!”