Disco might have said like twelve o’clock, if numbers would have added to the force of his remark, for the little creatures referred to were miraculously active in pursuit of their food.
“But I s’pose,” continued Disco, “the niggers would think our country a queerer place than this.”
“Undoubtedly they would,” replied Harold; “just fancy what would be the feelings of Kambira if he were suddenly transported into the heart of London.”
“Hallo!” exclaimed Disco, stopping suddenly and pointing to one of the men in advance, who had crouched and made signals to his friends to halt, “breakers ahead—eh?”
“More likely buffaloes,” whispered Harold, as he cocked his rifle and advanced quickly with Kambira, who carried a short spear or javelin.
On reaching an opening in the bushes, a small herd of zebras was observed not much more than a hundred yards in advance.
“Will the white man’s gun kill so far?” asked the chief, turning to Antonio.
The interpreter made no reply, but pointed to Harold, who was in the act of taking aim. The loud report was followed by the fall of the nearest zebra. Disco also fired and wounded another, which bounded away in wild alarm with its fellows.
The natives yelled with delight, and Disco cheered in sympathy.
“You’ve hit him,” said Harold, as he reloaded.