“Well,” continued the Major after one or two draws at his long Dutch pipe, “the brothers Roos were renowned as mighty hunters, and it was said that they had killed upwards of thirty lions in their time, to say nothing of other big game. But you know that ‘the pitcher that goes too often to the well runs a good chance of getting smashed,’ and Master Hendrik Roos on one occasion went very near proving the truth of the old proverb. He was hunting alone in the wilds when suddenly he found himself face to face with an enormous lion, who, so far from retiring before the white man, seemed determined to dispute with him the right of way. Hendrik dismounted, threw his reins over his arm, and, waiting until the lion was within twenty paces and couched and in the act of springing, took careful aim at his forehead, but the moment he pressed the trigger his horse started, the reins broke, and, worse than all, his bullet missed its mark!
“The lion bounded forward, and at a few paces’ distance confronted the intrepid hunter, who now stood defenceless—his ‘roer’ (smooth-bore gun for big game) empty, his horse fled; but he showed no sign of fear.
“Man and beast stared hard at each other for some little time, and at length the latter slowly retired backwards, whereupon Hendrik began to reload his gun. At this movement the lion growled and came forward again. The hunter stood stock-still, motionless as a statue, and again the lion retired. Once more Hendrik attempted to ram home his bullet, and once more his formidable adversary advanced, growling ominously. Hendrik fixed his eyes upon him, and the lion seemed confused—halted for a moment, and stood lashing his flanks with his tail, growling all the while; then of a sudden, unable to face any longer the stern gaze of the man, the savage beast turned about and fairly took to his heels; and so Hendrik Roos was saved.”
“Well, he was a plucky chap!” exclaimed Tom. “I wouldn’t have stood in his shoes for something!”
“You see that this Dutch hunter possessed an intimate knowledge of the nature of the animal he was pitted against; and knowledge is power,” observed Mr Weston. “But, talking of wild animals, I remember that it was not very far from Mossel Bay that I fell in, for the first and last time in my life, with a wild elephant. It was in ’16, just before I ‘shipped the swab,’ and I was then acting third ‘luff’ of the Phaeton. We had been on the Cape station a few months, and our skipper had been ordered round to the Knysna to make a report as to the feasibility of forming a government ship-building establishment on the banks of the river.
“Whilst there I went out duck-shooting with the purser, who had the reputation of being a thorough sportsman and an excellent shot. We went some miles up country, and I soon found that my shipmate, though a capital shooter, was a precious bad hitter; and got through a large amount of ammunition in a very short time with no appreciable results.
“Well, after blazing away half the day without bagging a single bird, we came to a large pool of water surrounded with very high grass (some of it quite ten feet in height) and abounding with wild ducks and geese.
“‘Now’s our chance, Wraggles!’ I exclaimed, bringing my fowling-piece to the shoulder. ‘Let fly into the middle of them!’
“Bang! bang! went our guns, and at least one duck fell a victim to our unerring aim.
“But ere we could secure the butchered birds the welkin rang with an awful roar, and the whole pool was in a state of commotion. The next moment an enormous elephant rushed from out the grass, trumpeting loudly and striking the grass with his trunk.