“Ben and I want to look up an old friend,” said Mr. Holton. “A Mr. George Seabury. He used to be a mighty hunter.”
“Used to be?” queried Bob. “What do you mean, Dad? Is he old or something?”
“What I meant, Bob, is that several years ago he was charged by a rhino and has not had full use of his legs since. He can walk, but doesn’t do it any too well. Suppose,” he continued, “you and Joe come with us. There’s no question but that you’ll like him at once.”
The youths were more than willing, and, led by their fathers, they walked over to a section of the town that was inhabited only by Europeans and Americans.
At a rather attractive-looking house they stopped, and Mr. Lewis knocked on the door.
The door was opened by a large, swarthy man of anywhere between fifty and sixty. One glance at Mr. Lewis and Mr. Holton was enough.
“By Jupiter!” he cried, overjoyed at sight of the naturalists. “Come in, you old rascals.”
Mr. Holton smiled and gave his friend an affectionate pat on the back.
“But we’ve brought our sons with us this time,” he said, indicating Bob and Joe. “George, meet Joe Lewis and Bob Holton. Boys, this is Mr. Seabury.”
There was a shaking of hands and general greeting, and in the end the chums felt perfectly at home.