Springing from Ferus, Petrus turned to search for the voice.
"George! George!" he cried softly in joy, as a little lame boy came limping out from behind a big tree and bounded forward into his arms.
"Petrus! Take me home! Take me home!" he cried. "Quick, before Dirk comes! Dirk tried to make a Zulu of me, Petrus, and—"
A great rushing sound of wheels drowned the rest of George's sentence. It was a large motor-car—for even in far-off Africa they have automobiles—with two armed passengers, which swung directly up to them and halted.
"Oh, Daddy! Father! Father!" cried George, throwing himself into his father's arms.
"George! George! my precious boy!" cried the lieutenant, seizing his child with a look of great joy. "Here, Petrus, jump into the car beside Hercules. You have won George's and my everlasting gratitude. Mutla, take this money and bring the ponies home by freight. Good-by. We're off for home!"
"Good-by, Mutla, and thank you for coming with me," called back Petrus, as the big car whirled out of sight.