“There is certainly nothing like judging of things by comparison,” observed Frankfort, as, after a thorough enjoyment of his breakfast, he laid his head on his saddle under a stunted bush, and, taking out a book, prepared to indulge himself, as he called it, till it was time to assist May in re-packing and preparing for advancing.
May trudged on with the dogs, and halted again in due time, in a similar locality, where the solace Ormsby sought was another meal, combining dinner and supper. An omelette from the egg of an ostrich, whose nest had been raked out of the sand by the keen and persevering May, was not a bad wind-up to a refection of game; a cigar and coffee followed, and while the ostriches were still stalking in the light, the wearied party were glad to make ready for the night, and lay their limbs at rest.
For two succeeding days nothing occurred to distinguish the one from the other; there were the same arid tracts, the same glaring bivouacs, the chilly midnights and dewy dawns—the same porcupine breakfasts, venison dinners, and omelette remove.
On the third day they found themselves on the borders of a river, rapid and circuitous in its course, and fringed with bush, and here Ormsby, in a fit of ennui, determined that May should get up a regular porcupine hunt by moonlight—midnight was the time chosen.
Their tents were pitched on the riverside in expectation of remaining there some days, for, calm as looked the current, May, from certain indications, expected it to rise and swell beyond its bounds. Besides, here was shelter and pasturage for the tired cattle.
“So much for things by comparison again,” said Frankfort, as he sat down under a foe willow. “Those who sleep in well-curtained beds this night will hardly enjoy their rest as we shall do for the next three hours.”
Ormsby’s thoughts had been floating about in the clouds of his cigar, the fifteenth since the morning; but as he cast the remainder of it from his lips, he said, “Ah, all this may be very fine and sublime, as you call it; but, for my part, I wish I were going to take my rest in the orange-room at Ormsby Park.”
The contrast of the orange-room at Ormsby Park with the willow drapery, the starry roof and the silver moon walking demurely in the sky, at once dragged Major Frankfort from the sublime to the ridiculous, and he burst out laughing; but his mirth was checked by Ormsby whispering, “Hush, there is some one in the bush near us; I heard a branch crack—it can be none of our own people—they are all sitting together over the fire, listening to that three-stringed lute of May’s.”
“Hush, there it is again!—some restless baboon, probably,” remarked Ormsby.
“No, the bush here is not thick enough for them.”