He could not speak himself, but why could not the dog do so for him.
His feet were still free, and, raising one of them, he gave Spoor’em a kick,—a cruel kick.
The poor animal crouched at his feet and uttered a low whine. It could not have been heard thirty paces away.
Again the foot was lifted, and dashed against the ribs of the unfortunate dog, that neither made an effort to avoid the blow nor any complaint at receiving it.
The only answer vouchsafed was but a low, querulous whine, that seemed to say, “Why is this, master? In what have I offended you?”
Just as the foot was lifted for the third time, the air reverberated to a long, loud roar. It was the voice of a hungry lion, that appeared to be only a few paces from the spot.
Spoor’em instantly sprang to his feet, and answered the King of beasts by a loud defiant bark.
The faithful animal that would not resist its master’s ill-treatment, was but too ready to defend that master from the attack of a third party.
In the bark of Spoor’em there was an idiosyncrasy. It was heard and instantly recognised.
The moment after Congo had the pleasure of hearing the tramp of horses, as they came trotting down the hill; and the voice of Willem calling out to him!