 Chapter 20 There was no hunting for several days after their fair with the Kudukha. Jock looked worse the following day than he had done since recovering consciousness. His head and neck swelled up so that chewing was impossible, and he could only lap a little soup or milk, and could hardly bend his neck at all. On the morning of the second day, Jim McCookill came up with his hostile-looking swagger and a cross-worried look on his face, and in a half-angry and wholly disgusted tone jerked out of me. The dog is deaf. I say so. Me, Jim McCookill. Jock is deaf. He does not hear when you speak. Deaf. Yes, deaf. Jim's tone grew fiercer as he warmed up. He seemed to hold me responsible. The moment the boy spoke, I knew it was true. It was the only possible explanation for many little things. Nevertheless, I jumped up hurriedly to try him in a dozen ways, hoping to find that he could hear something. Jim was right. He was really stone deaf. It was pathetic to find how each little subterfuge that drew his eyes from me left him out of reach. It seemed as if a link had been broken between us, and I had lost my hold. That was wrong, however. In a few days he began to realize the loss of hearing, and after that, feeling so much greater dependence on sight, his watchfulness increased so that nothing escaped him. None of those who saw him in that year, when he was at his very best, could bring themselves to believe he was deaf. With me it made differences both ways, something lost and something gained. If he could hear nothing, he saw more. The language of science developed, and taking it all round I believe the sense of mutual dependence for success and of mutual understanding was greater than ever. Snowball went on to the retired list at the end of the next trip. Joey the Smith stood at the forge one day, trimming a red hot horse shoe when I rode up and dropping the reins over Snowball's head sang out, morning Joey. Joey placed the chisel on the shoe with nice calculation of the amount he wanted to snip off. His assistant boy swung the big hammer, and an inch cube of red hot iron dropped off. Then Joey looked up with, what seemed to me, a conflict of innocent surprise and stifled amusement in his face. The boy also turned to look, and the insignificant incidence is curiously unforgettable, trod upon the piece of hot iron. Look where you're standing! said Joey reproachfully, as the smoke and smell of burning skin-welt rose up. The boy, with a grunt of disgust, such as we might give it a burnt boot, looked to see what damage had been done to his unders. It gave me an even better idea of a nigger's feet than those thorn-bigging operations when we had to cut through a solid whitest welts a third of an inch thick. Joey grinned openly at the boy, but he was thinking of Snowball. I wonder you had the heart, Joey, I do indeed, I said, shaking my head at him. You would have had him, lad! There's no refusing you. You are so nice and wanted him so bad. But how could you bear to part with him, Joey? It must have been like selling one of the family. Yes, boy, yes. We're a bit stupid, our lot. Is he such a fool, or has he improved any with you? Joey, I've learnt him, full up to the teeth. If he stops longer he will become wicked like me, and you would not be the ruin of an innocent young thing trying to earn a living honestly if he can. Come round behind the shop, boy. I'll get your pony a little suit you proper. He gave a hearty laugh and added, You can always get what you ask for if it ain't worth having moral. Don't ask. I never offered you Snowball. That's one different. You can have him at cost price, and that's an old twelve-month account. Ten pounds. He's worth four of it. Salted and shooting. Shake. An eye-gripped, his grimy old fist gladly, known it was Johnnick and a square deal. That was Mungo Park, the long, strong, low-built, half-bred besuto pony, well-trained and without guile. I left Snowball with his previous owner to use as required, and never called back for him. And if this should meet the eye of Joey the Smith, he will know that I no longer hope his future life will be spent in stalking a wart-eyed white horse in a phantom bush-felt. Mungo made amends. There was a spot between the Kamati and the Crocodile rivers on the north side of the road, where the white man, seldom passed, and nature was undisturbed. Few knew of water there. It was too well concealed between deep banks and the dense growth of thorns and large trees. The spot always had a great attraction for me, apart from the big game to be found there. I used to steal along the banks of this lone water and watch the smaller life of the bush. It was a delightful field for nature-ist and artist, but unfortunately we thought little of such things, and knew even less, and now nothing is left from all the glorious opportunities but the memory of an endless fascination, and a few facts that touch the human chord and will not submit to be forgotten. There were plenty of birds, guinea fowl, pheasant, partridge, knurhan, and bush-powl. Jock accompanied me, of course, when I took the fowling piece, but merely for companionship, for there was no need for him on these occasions. I shot birds to get a change of food, and trusted to walking them up along the river banks and near drinking-pools. But one evening Jock came forward on his own accord to help me, a sort of amused volunteer, and after that I always used him. He had been at my heels, apparently taking little interest in the proceedings from the moment the first bird fell, and he saw what the game was. Probably he was intelligently interested all the time, but considered it nothing to get excited about. After a time I saw him turn aside from the line where we had been walking, and stroll off at a walking pace, sniffing softly the while. When he had gone a dozen yards he stopped and looked back at me, and then looked in front again, with his head slightly on one side, much as he would have done examining a beetle rolling his ball. There were no signs of anything, yet the grass was short for those parts, scarce afoot high, and close, soft and curly. Abrasive partridges rose a few feet from Jock, and he stood at ease calmly watching them, without a sign or move to indicate more than amused interest. The birds were absurdly tame and sailed so quietly along that I hesitated at first to shoot. Then the noise of the two shots put up the largest number of partridges I have ever seen in one lot, and a line of birds rose for perhaps sixty yards across our front. There was no wild war and confusion, they rose in leisurely fashion as if told to move on, sailing infinitely slowly down the slope to the thorns near the donger. Running my eye along the line I counted them in twos up to between thirty and forty, and that could not have been more than half. How many conveys had packed there, and for what purpose, and whether they came every evening, were questions which one would like answered now, but they were not of sufficient interest then to encourage a second visit another evening. The birds sailed quietly into the little wood, and many of them are lighted on branches of the larger trees. It was the only time I have seen partridges in a tree, but when one comes to think it out, it seems common sense that in a country teeming with vermin and night prowlers all birds should sleep off the ground, perhaps they do. There were a number of little squirrel-like creatures there too, our fellows used to call them ground squirrels and tree rats because they lived underground, yet climbed trees readily in search of food. There were little fellows like meerkats, with bushy tails ringed in brown, black and white, of which the wagon boys made decorations for their slouch hats. Jock wanted to go at them, they did not appear quite so much beneath notice as the birds. Along the water's edge one came on the Lugavans, huge repulsive water lizards three to four feet long, like crocodiles in miniature, stunning themselves in some favorite spot in the margin of the reeds or on the edge of the bank. They give one the jumps by the suddenness of their rush through the reeds and plunge into deep water. There were otters too, big black-brown fierce fellows to be seen swimming silently close under the banks. I got a couple of them, but was always nervous of letting Jock into the water after things, as no one knew where the crocodiles lurked. He got an ugly bite from one old dog otter which I shot in shallow water, and mortally wounded as he was, the otter put up a rare good fight before Jock finally hauled him out. Then there were canerats, considered by some most excellent and delicate of meats, as big and tender as small sucking pigs. The canerat, living and dead, was one of the stock surprises, and the subject of jokes and tricks upon the unsuspecting. There seemed to be no sort of ground for associating their extraordinary fat thing gliding among the reeds or swimming silently under the banks, with either its live capacity of rat or its more attractive dead roll of roasts sucking pig. The hardened ones enjoyed setting the street before the hungry and unsuspecting, and after a hearty meal announced, that was roast rat. Good, isn't it? The memory of one experience gives me water in their gills now. It was unpleasant, but not equal to the nausea and upheaval which supervened when, after a very savoury stew of delicate white meat, we were shown the fresh skin of a monkey hanging from the end of the buck rails. With the head drooping forward, eyes closed, arms dangling lifeless, and limp open hands. A ghastly caricature of some hanged human, shriveled and shrunk with its clothes of skin, I felt like a cannibal. The water tortoises in the silent pools, grotesque muddy fellows, were full of interest to the quiet watcher, and better that way than as the turtle soup which once or twice we benched on and tried to think was good. There were certain hours of the day when it was most pleasant and profitable to lie in the shade and rest. It is the time of rest for the bush felt, that spell about midday, and yet if one remains quiet there is generally something to see and something worth watching. There were the insects on the ground about one which would not otherwise be seen at all. There were caterpillars clad in spiky armour made of tiny fragments of grass, fair defence no doubt against some enemies and most marvellous disguise. Other caterpillars clad in bark, impossible to detect until they moved. There were grasshoppers like leaves and irregularly shaped stick insects with legs as bulky as the body and all joined by knots like irregular twigs, wonderful memetic creatures. Jock often found these things for me. Something would move and interest him, and when I saw him stand up and examine a thing at his feet, turned it over with his nose or giving it a scrape with its paw, it was usually worth joining in the inspection. The hot and taut gods always attracted him as they reared up and prayed before him, quaint things with tiny heads and thin necks and enormous eyes that sat up with four legs raised to pray as a pet dog sits up and begs. One day I was watching the ants as they travelled along their route, sometimes stopping to hobnob with those they met, sometimes hurrying past, and sometimes turning as those sent back on a message or reminded of something forgotten. When a little dry brown bean lying on a spot of sunlight gave a jump of an inch or two. At first it seemed that I must have unknowingly moved some twig or grass stem that flicked it, but as I watched it there was another vigorous jump. I took it up and examined it, but there was nothing unusual about it. It was just a common light brown bean, with no peculiarities or marks. It was a real puzzle, a most surprising and ridiculous one. I found half a dozen more in the same place, but it was some days before we discovered the secret. Domiciled in each of them was a very small but very energetic worm, with a truck door or stopper on his one end, so artfully contrived that it was almost impossible with a naked eye to locate the spot where the hole was. The worm objected to too much heat, and if the beans were placed in the sun or near the fire the weird astonishing jumping would commence. The beans were good for jumping for several months, and once in Delagoa one of our party put some on a plate in the sun beside a fellow who had been doing himself too well for some time previously. He had become a perfect nuisance to us, and we could not get rid of him. He had a mouthful of bread and a mug of coffee on the way to help it down when the first bean jumped. He gave a sort of peck, blinked several times to clear his eyes, and then with his left hand pulled slightly at his collar as though to ease it. Then came another jump, and his mouth opened slowly and his eyes got big. The plate being hollow and glazed was not a fair field for the jumpers, they could not escape, and in about half a minute eight or ten beans were having a rough tumble. With a white scared face our guest slowly lowered his mug, screened his eyes with the other hand, and after fighting down a mouthful of bread got up and walked off without a word. We tried to smother our laughter, but someone's choking made him look back, and he saw the whole lot of us in various stages of convulsions. He made one rude remark and went on, but everyone he met that day made some allusion to beans, and he took the Durban streamer next morning. The insect life was prodigious in its number and variety, and the birds, the beasts, and the reptiles were all interesting. There is a goodness knows what will turn up next atmosphere about the bush felt, which is, I fancy, unique. The story of a curate armed with a butterfly coming face to face with a black maimed lion may or may not be true. In fact it is true enough as an illustration, and it is no more absurd or unlikely than the meeting at five yards of a lioness and a fever-stricken lad carrying a white-green lion umbrella, which is true. The boy stood and looked, the lioness did the same. She seemed to think I was not worth eating, so she walked off, he used to say. He was a trooper two-four-two of the Imperial Light Horse, who went back under fire for wounded comrades and was killed as he bought the last one out. I had an old cross-bred, hot-and-tot Bushman boy once. One could not tell which lot he favored, who was full of the folklore stories and superstitions of his strange and dying race, which he half-humorously and half-seriously blended with his own knowledge and hunting experience. Yankee had the ugly, wrinkled, dry leather face of his breed, with hollow cheeks, high cheekbones, and little pinched eyes, so small and so deeply set that no one ever saw the color of them. The peppercorns of tight, wiry wool that did the duty for her were sparsely scattered over his head like the stunted bushes of the desert, and his face and head were seen with scars too numerous to count, the souvenirs of his drunken brawls. He resembled a tame monkey rather than a human creature, being like so many of his kind without the moral side or qualities of human nature, which go to mark the distinction between man and monkey. He was normally mostly cherry and obliging, but it meant nothing for in a moment the monkey would peep out, vicious, treacherous and unrestrained. Honesty, sobriety, gratitude, truth, fidelity, and humanity were impossible to him. It seemed as if even the germs were not there to cultivate, and the material with which to work did not exist. He had certain make-believe substitutes, which had in a sense been grafted onto his nature, and appeared to work, while there was no real use for them. They made a show until they were tested, one took them for granted as long as they were not disproved. It was a skin graft only, and there seemed to be no real union possible between them and the tough alien stock. He differed in character and nature from the Zulu as much as he did from the white man. He was as void of principles as, well, as his next of kin, the monkey. Yet, while without either shame or contempt for cowardice, he was wholly without fear of physical danger, having a sort of fatalist's indifference to it, and that was something to set off against his moral deficit. I put Yankee on to wash clothes the day he turned up at the wagons to look for work, and as he knelt on the rocks stripped to the west I noticed a very curious knotted line, running up his right side from the lowest rib into the armpit. The line was whiter than his yellow skin, over each rib there was a knot or widening in the line, and under the arm there was a big splotchy star, or markings of some curious wound. He laughed almost hysterically, his eyes disappearing altogether, and every tooth showing, if I lifted his arm to investigate, and then, in high-pitched falsettoed tones, he shouted in a sort of ecstasy and delight. De, oh, Biffle's boss! De, Biffle's bull, boss! Buffalo! Did he toss you, I asked. Yankee seemed to think it the best joke in the world, and with constant squeals of laughter and graphic gestures, gabbled off his account. His master, it appeared, had shot at and slightly wounded a buffalo, and Yankee had been placed at one exit from the bush to prevent the herd from breaking away. As they came towards him, he fired at the foremost one, but before he could reload, the wounded bull made for him, and he ran for dear life to the only tree near, one of the flat-top thorns. He heard the thundering hooves and snorting breath behind, but raced on, hoping to reach the tree and dodge behind it. A few yards short, however, the bull caught him, in spite of a jump aside, and flung him with one toss right on top of the thorn tree. When he recovered consciousness, he was lying face upwards in the sun, with nothing to rest his head on, and only sticks and thorns around him. He did not know where he was or what had happened. He tried to move, but one arm was useless, and their effort made him slip and sag, and he thought he was falling through the earth. Presently he heard regular trampling underneath him, and the breath of a big animal, and the whole incident came back to him. By feeling about cautiously, he at last located the biggest branch under him, and, getting a grip onto this, he managed to turn over and ease his right side. He could then see the buffalo. It had trampled a circle around the tree, and was doing sentry over him. Now and again the huge creature stopped to sniff, snort, and stamp, and then resumed the round, perhaps the reverse way. The buffalo could not see him, and never once looked up, but glared about at its own accustomed level, and, relying entirely on the sense of smell, it kept up the restless vengeful watch for hours, always stopping in the same place to leeward to satisfy itself that the enemy had not escaped. Late in the afternoon, the buffalo, for the first time, suddenly came to stand on the windward side of the tree, and after a good minute's silence, turned its tail on Yankee, and with angry sniffs and tosses, stepped swiftly and resolutely forward some faces. There was nothing to be seen, but Yankee judged the position, and yelled out a warning to his master, whom he guessed to be coming through the bush to look for him, and at the same time he made what noise he could in the treetop to make the buffalo think he was coming down. The animal looked round from time to time with swings and tosses of his head, and threatening angry sneezes, much as one sees a kardu when standing between her young calf and threatened danger. It was defending Yankee for his own purposes, and facing the danger. For many minutes there was dead silence, no answer came to Yankee's call, and the bull stood its ground glaring and sniffling towards the bush. At last there was a heavy thud below, instantly followed by the report of a rifle. The bullet came faster than the sound. The buffalo gave a heavy plunge, and with a grunting sob slid forwards on its chest. Round the campfire at night, Yankee used to tell tales in which fact, fancy, and superstition were curiously mingled, and Yankee, when not out of humour, was free with his stories. The boys, for whose benefit they were told, listened opened mouth, and I often stood outside the ring of gaping boys at the fire, an interested listener. The tale of his experiences with the honeybird, which he had cheated out of its share, was the first I heard him tell. Who could say how much was fact, how much fancy, and how much the superstition of his race? Not even Yankee knew that, he believed it all. The honeybird met him one day, with cheery, cheap, cheap, and as he whistled in reply, it led him to an old tree where the beehive was. It was a small hive, and Yankee was hungry, so he ate it all. All the time he was eating, the bird kept fluttering about, calling anxiously, and expecting some honey, or young fat bees to be thrown out of it, and when he had finished, the bird came down and searched in vain for its share. As he walked away, the guilty Yankee, noticed that the indignant bird followed him with angry cries and threats. All day long he failed to find game. Whenever there seemed to be a chance, an angry honeybird would appear ahead of him, and cry a warning to the game, and that night, as he came back, empty-handed and hungry, all the portents of bad luck came to him and turn. An owl screeched three times over his head. A goat-sucker with its long wavy wings entailed, flitted before him in swoops and rings, in most ghostly silence, and there is nothing more ghostly than the flappy, wavy, soundless flittings of a goat-sucker. A jackal trotted persistently in front, looking back at him, and a striped hyena, humpback, savage and solitary, stalked by in silence and glared. At night, as he lay unable to sleep, the bats came and made faces at him. A night adder rose up before his face and slithered out its forked tongue. The two black beady eyes glinted the firelight back, and whichever way he looked there was a honeybird, silent and angry, yet with a look of satisfaction as it looked, so it went all night, no sleep for him, no rest. In the morning he rose early, and taking his gun and chopper, set out in search of hives, he would give all to the honeybird he had cheated, and thus make amends. He had not gone far before, to his great delight there came a welcome chattering and answer to his low whistle, and the busy little fellow flew up to show himself, and promptly led the way. Going ahead ten to twenty yards at a flight, Yankee followed eagerly until they came to a small donger with the sandy bottom, and then the honeybird called bristly, fluttered from tree to tree on either bank leading him on. Yankee, thinking the hive must be near, was walking slowly along the sandy bed and looking upwards in the trees, when something on the ground caught his eye, and he sprang back just as the head of a big puff had astruck where his barefoot had been a moment before. With one swing of his chopper he killed it, he took the skin off for an ornament, the poison glands for medicine, and the fangs for charms, and then whistled and looked about for the honeybird, but it had gone. A little later on, however, he came upon another, and had led him to a big and shady wild fig. The honeybird flew to the trunk itself and cheaped and shattered there, and Yankee put down his gun and looked about for an easy place to climb. As he peered through the foliage, he met a pair of large green eyes looking full into his. On a big limb of the tree lay a tiger, still as death, with its head resting on his paws, watching him with a cat-like eagerness for its prey. Yankee hooked his toe to the ream sling of his old gun, and slowly gathered it up without moving his eye from the tigers, and backing away slowly, foot by foot, he got out into the sunshine and made off as fast as he could. It was the honeybird's revenge, he knew it then. He sat down on some bare ground to think what to do next, for he knew that he must die if he did not find honey, and make good a hundred times what he had cheated. All day long he kept meeting honeybirds and following them, but he would no longer follow them into bad places, for he could not tell whether they were new birds or the one he had robbed. Once he had been nearly caught, the bird had perched on an old anteep, and Yankee, thinking there was a ground hive there, walked boldly forwards. A small misshapen tree grew out of the anteep, and one of the twisted branches caught his eye, because of the thick ring around it. It was the coil of a long green mumber, and far below that, half hidden by the leaves, hung the snake's head with the neck gathered in half-loop coils ready to strike at him. After that Yankee kept in the open, searching for himself among the rocks and in the old dead trees for the tell-tale stains that marked the hive's entrance, but he had no luck, and when he reached the river in the early afternoon he was glad of a cool drink and a place to rest. For a couple of hours he had seen no honeybirds, and it seemed at last that his pursuer had given him up for that day at least. As he sat in the shade of the high bank, however, with the river only a few yards from his feet, he heard again the faint chattering. It came from the riverside beyond a turn in the bank, and it was too far away for the bird to have seen Yankee from where it called, so he had no doubt about this being a new bird. It seemed to him a glorious piece of luck that he should find honey by the aid of a strange bird, and be able to take half of it back to the hive he had emptied the day before, and leave it there for the cheated bird. There was a beach of pebbles and rocks between the high bank and the river, and as Yankee walked along it on the keen lookout for the bird, he spotted it sitting on a route halfway down the bank some twenty yards away. Close to where the chattering bird perched, there was a break in the pebbly beach, and there shallow water extended up to the perpendicular bank. In the middle of this little stretch of water and conveniently placed as a stepping stone, there was a black rock, and the bare-footed Yankee stepped noiselessly from stone to stone towards it. An alarmed cane-rat cut off by Yankee from the river, ran along the foot of the bank to avoid him, but when it reached the little patch of shallow water, it suddenly doubled back and fried, and raced under the boy's feet into the river. Yankee stopped. He did not know why, but there seemed to be something wrong. Something had frightened the cane-rat back onto him, and he stared hard at the bank and the stretch of beach ahead of him. Then the rock he meant to step on gave a heave, and a long blackish thing curved towards him. He sprang into the air as high as he could, and the crocodile's tail swept under his feet. Yankee fled back like a buck. The rattle on the stones behind him and the crash of reeds putting yards into every bound. For four days he stayed in camp waiting for someone to find a hive and give him honey enough to make his peace. And then, for an old snuff-box and little pade, he bought a huge basket full of comb, young and old, from a kappa-woman at one of the crows some miles away, and put it all at the foot of the tree he had cleaned out. Then he had peace. The boys believed every word of that story, so, I am sure, did Yankee himself. The buffalo story was obviously true, and Yankee thought nothing of it. The Honeybird story was not, yet he gloried in it. It touched his superstitious nature, and it was impossible for him to tell the truth, or to separate fact from fancy and superstition. How much fact there may have been in it, I cannot say. Honeybirds gave me many a wild goose chase, but when they led to anything at all, it was two hives and not two snakes, tigers and crocodiles. Perhaps it is right to own up that I never cheated the Honeybird. We pretended to laugh at the superstition, but we left some Honey all the same, just for luck. After all, as we used to say, the bird earned its share, and deserved encouragement. Round the campfire at night, it was no uncommon thing to see someone jump up and let out with whatever was handiest at some poisonous intruder. There was always plenty of dead wood about, and we piled on big branches and logs freely, and as the ends burned to ashes in the heart of the fire, we kept pushing the logs further in. Of course, dead trees are home to all sorts of creepy, crawly things, and as the log warmed up and the fire eaten to the decayed heart and drove thick hot smoke through the cracks and corridors and secret places in the logs, the occupants would come scuttling out at the butt ends. Small snakes are common, the big ones usually clearing when the log was first disturbed, and they slip away into the darkness, giving hard, quick glances about them, but scorpions, centipedes, and all sorts of spiders were by far more numerous. Occasionally in the mornings we found snakes under our blankets, where they had worked in during the night for the warmth of the human body, but no one was bitten, and one made a practice of getting up at once, and with one movement, so that the unwelcomed visitors should not be warned or provoked by any preliminary rolling. The scorpions, centipedes, and tarantulas seemed to be more objectionable, but they were quite as anxious to get away as we were, and it is wonderful how little damage is done. One night, when we had been watching them coming out of a big honey-combed log, like the animals from the ark, and were commenting on the astonishing number and the variety of these things, I heard Yankee conveying in high-pitched tones fancyful bits of information to their credulous wagon boys. When he found that we too were listening, and Yankee had the storytellers' love for a gallery, he turned our way and dropped into jargon of broken English, helped out with hot-and-touch Dutch, which it is impossible to reproduce in intelligible form. He made some allusion to the great battle, and when I asked for an explanation he told us the story. It is well known in South Africa, and similar stories are to be found in the folklore of other countries, but it had a special interest to us in that Yankee gave it as having come to him from his own people. He called it the great battle between the things of the earth and the things of the air. For a long time there had been jealousy between the things of the earth and the things of the air, each claiming superiority for themselves, each could do some things that others could not do, and each thought their powers greater and their qualities superior. One day a number of them happened to meet on an open plane near the river's bank, and the game of brag began again as usual. At last the lion, who was very cross, turned to the old black arsefuhrle as he sat half asleep on a dead tree and challenged him. You only eat the dead, you steal where others kill, it is all talk with you, you will not fight. The arsefuhrle said nothing, but let his bald head and bare neck settle down between his shoulders, and closed his eyes. He wakes up soon enough when we find him squatting above the carcass, said the jackal, see him flop along then. When we find him, the arsefuhrle said, opening his eyes wide, sneaking prowler of the night, little bastard of the striped thief, come down and fight, snarled the hyena angrily, thief and scavenger yourself. So the things of the air gathered around and joined in backing the black arsefuhrle, and the things of the earth kept on challenging them to come down and have it out. But nobody could hear anything because the jackal yapped incessantly, and the go away birds with his feathers all on end and its neck craned out, screamed itself drunk with passion. Then the eagle spoke out, You have talked enough, strike, strike for the eyes, and he swept down close to the lion's head, but swerving to avoid the big paw that darted out at him, he struck in passing at the jackal, and took out part of his ear. I am killed, I am killed, screamed the jackal, racing for a hole to hide in. But the other beasts laughed at him, and when the lion called them up and bade them take their places in the field for the great battle, the jackal walked close behind him, holding his head on one side, and showing each one what the eagle had done. Where is my place? asked the crocodile, in a soft voice from the bank where no one had noticed him come up. The things of the earth that were near him moved quietly away. Your place is in the water, the lion answered, cowered and traitor whom no one trusts. Who would fight with his back to you? The crocodile laughed softly and rolled his green eyes from one to another, and they moved still further away. What am I? asked the ostrich, kindred of the birds. I am of the winged ones, but I cannot fight with them. Let him fly! said the jackal, grinning, and we shall then see to whom he belongs. Fly, old three-sticks, fly! The ostrich ran at him, wulsing and darting with wings outspread, but the jackal dodged away under the lion and squealed out, take your feet off the ground clumsy and fly! Then it was arranged that there should be two umpires, one from each party, and that the umpires should stand on two high hills where all could see them. The ostrich was made umpire for the things of the air, and as long as the fight went well with his party, he was to hold his head high, so that the things of the air might see the long neck upright, and knowing that all was well, fight on. The jackal asked that he might be umpire of the things of the earth. You are too small to be seen, objected the lion gruffly. No, no, urged the jackal. I will stand up on a big anteep and hold my bushy tail on high, where all will see it shining silver and gold in the sunlight. Good, said the lion, it's better so perhaps, for you would never fight, and as soon as one begins to run, others follow. The things of the air gathered in their numbers, and the eagle led them, showing them how to make up for their weakness by coming swiftly down in numbers when they found their enemies alone or weak, or how to keep the sun behind them so that it would shine in their enemy's eyes and blind them, and how the loud-voiced ones should attack on the rare and scream suddenly while those with bull and claws sweep down in front and struck at the eyes. And for a time it went well with the things of the air. The little birds and locusts and butterflies came in clouds about the lion, and he could see nothing as he moved from place to place, and the things of the earth were confused by these sudden attacks, and giving up the fight began to flee from their places. Then the jackal, believing that he would not be found out, cheated. He kept his tail up to make them think that they were not beaten. The lion roared to them that all could hear, to watch the hill where the jackals stood and see the sign of victory, and the things of the earth being strong gathered together again, and withstood the enemy and drove them off. The battle was going against the things of the air when the go-way bird came to the eagle and said, It's the jackal who has done it. Long ago we had won, but cheat and coward, he kept his tail aloft, and his people have returned and are winning now. Then the eagle, looking round the field, said, Send me the bee. And when the bee came, the eagle told them what to do, and setting quietly about his work, as his habit is, he made a circuit through the trees that brought him to the hill where the jackal watched from the anteep. While the jackal stood there with his mouth open and tongue arch, laughing to see how his cheating had succeeded, the bee came up quietly behind, and, as Yankee put it, stuck him from here after. The jackal gave a scream of pain, and tucking his tail down, jumped from the anteep, and ran away into the bush. And when the things of the earth saw the signal go down, they thought that all was lost and fled. So was the Great Battle I. End of Chapter 20. Chapter 21 of Jock of the Bushfield. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Sally McConnell in Bettie's Bay, South Africa, in February 2010. Jock of the Bushfield, by Sir Percy Fitzpatrick. Chapter 21. Monkeys and Wildebeests. Munger was not a perfect mount, but he was a great improvement on snowball. He had a Richard walk, and led almost as badly as his predecessor. But this did not matter so much, because he could be driven like a pack-donkey, and relied on not-to-play pranks. In a gallop after-game, he was much faster than snowball, having a wonderful long stride for so low a pony. A horse made a good deal of difference in the hunting in many ways. Not the least of which was that some sort of excursion was possible on most days. One could go further in the time available, and even if delayed, still be pretty sure of catching up to the wagons without much difficulty. Sometimes after a long night's trekking, I would start off after breakfast for some likely spot, off-saddle there in the shady place, sleep during the heat of the day, and after a billy of tea, start hunting towards the wagons in the afternoon. It was in such a spot on the Kamati River, a couple of hundred yards from the bank, that on one occasion I settled down to make up lost ground in the matter of sleep, and with mango knee-holtered in good grass and jock beside me, I lay flat on my back, with hat covering my eyes, and was soon comfortably asleep. The sleep had lasted a couple of hours when I began to dream that it was raining, and woke up in the belief that a hailstorm, following the rain, was just breaking over me. I started up to find all just as it had been, and the sunlight beyond the big tree so glaring as to make the eye's ache. Through half-closed lids I saw mango lying down asleep, and made out jock standing some yards away, quietly watching me. With a yawn and a stretch I lay back again. Sleep was over, but a good lazy rest was welcome. It had been earned, and most comforting of all, there was nothing else to be done. In the doze that followed I was surprised to feel quite distinctly something like a drop of rain strike my leg, and then another on my hat. Hang it all! It is raining, I said, sitting up again, and quite wide awake this time. There was jock still looking at me, but only for the moment of moving it appears. For a minute later he looked up into the tree above me with ears cocked, hid on one side, and tail held lazily on the horizontal, and moving slowly from time to time. It was his look of interested amusement. A couple of leaves fluttered down, and then the half-eaten pip of a wooden orange struck me in the face as I lay back again to see what was going on above. The pip gave me the line, and away up among the thick dark foliage I saw a little old face looking down at me. The quick, restless eyes were watchfully on the move, and the mouth partly opened in the shape of an O. Face and attitude together a vivid expression of surprise and indignation combined with breathless interest. As my eyes fairly met those above me, the monkey ducked its head forward and promptly made a facetly without uttering a sound. Then others showed up in different places, and whole figures became visible now as the monkeys stole softly along the branches to get a better look at jock and me. There were a couple of dozen of them of all sizes. They are the liveliest, most restless, and most inquisitive of creatures, ludicrously nervous and excitable, quick to chattering anger and bursts of hysterical passion which are intensely comical especially when they have been scared. They are creatures whose method of progress most readily betrays them by the swaying of a branch or quivering of leaves, yet they can steal about and melt away at will like small grey ghosts, silent as the grave. I had often tried to trap them, but never succeeded. Young he caught them as he caught everything with cunning that art matched his wilder kindred. Pitfalls, nooses, whipped traps, fall traps, foot snares, drags, slip-knots of all kinds, and tricks that I cannot now remember were in his repertory, but he disliked showing his traps, and when told to explain he would half sulkily show one of the common kind. The day he caught the monkey he was well pleased and may possibly have told the truth. Baboons and monkeys, he said, can count just like men, but they can only count two. If one man goes into a mealy field and waits for them with a gun, their sentry will see him, and he may wait for ever. If two go and one remains it is useless for they realise that only one has come out where two went in. But if three go in, one may remain behind to lie and wait for them, for the monkeys, seeing more than one return, will invade the mealy field as soon as the two are safely out of the way. That was only Yankee's explanation of the well-known fact that monkeys and baboons know the difference between one and more than one. But, as Yankee explained, their cleverness helped him to catch them. He went alone, and came away alone, leaving his trap behind, knowing that they were watching his every movement, but knowing also that their intense curiosity would draw them to it the moment it seemed safe. The trap he used was an old kalabash, or gourd, with a round hole in it about an inch in diameter, and a few pumpkin seeds and mealies and a hard crust of bread, just small enough to get into the kalabash, formed the bed. After fastening the gourd by a cord to a small stump, he left it lying on its side on the ground where he had been sitting. A few crumbs and seeds would drop near it, and the rest placed in the gourd with one or two showing in the mouth. Then he walked off on the side where he would be longest in view, and when well out of sight, sped round in a circuit to a previously selected spot where he could get close up again and watch. The foremost monkey was already on the ground when he got back, and others were hanging from low branches or clinging to the stems, ready to drop or retreat. Then began the grunts and careful timid approaches, such as one sees in a party of children hunting for the hidden ghost, who is expected to appear suddenly and chase them. Next the chattering, garrulous warnings and protests from the timid ones, the females in the upper branches. The sudden start and scurry of one of the youngsters, and the scare communicated to all, making even the leader jump back a pace. Then his angry grunt and loud scolding of the frightened ones, angry because they had given him a fright, and loud because he was reassuring himself. After a pause they began the careful roundabout approach, and the squatting and waiting, making pretenses of not being particularly interested, while their quick eyes watched everything. Then the deft picking up of one thing instantly dropped again, as one picks up a roasted chestnut and drops it in the same movement in case it should be hot, and finally the greedy scramble and chatter. I have seen all that, but not alas the successful ending when trying to imitate Yankee's methods. Yankee waited until the tugs of the good became serious, and then knowing that the smaller things had been taken out or shaken out and eaten, and that some enterprising monkey had put his arm into the hole and grabbed the crust, he ran out. A monkey rarely lets go any food it has grabbed, and when, as in this case, the hand is jammed in a narrow neck, the letting go cannot easily be done instinctively or inadvertently. The act requires a deliberate effort. So Yankee caught his monkey, and flinging his ragged coat over the captive, sat down to make it safe. By pushing the monkey's arm deeper into the good, the crust became released and the hand freed. He then gradually shifted the monkey about until he got the head into the shoulders of the loose old coat, and thence into the sleeve, and worked away at this until he had the creature as helpless as a mummy with the head appearing at the cuff opening, and the body jammed in the sleeve like a bulging overstuffed sausage. The monkey struggled, screamed, chattered, made faces, and cried like a child. But Yankee gripping it between his knees, worked away, unmoved. He next took the cord from the callabash and tied one end securely round the monkey's neck, to the shrinking horror of that individual, and the other end to a start-bush stick, about seven or eight feet long, and then slipped the monkey, cord, and stick back through the sleeve, and had his captive safe. The cord prevented it from getting away, and the stick from getting too close and biting him. When they sat opposite and pulled faces at each other, the family likeness was surprising. The grimacing little imps invariably tempt one to tease or chase them just to see their antics and methods, and when I rose openly watching them and stepping about for a better view, they abandoned the silent methods and bounded freely from branch to branch for fresh cover, always ducking behind something if I pointed the gun or a stick, or even my arm at them, and getting into paroxysms of rage and leaning over to slang and cheek me whenever it seemed safe. Jock was full of excitement, thoroughly warmed up and anxious to be at them, running about from place to place to watch them, tacking and turning and jumping for better views, and now and then running up to the trunk and scraping at it. Whenever he did this there was a moment's silence, the idea of playing a trick on them struck me, and I caught Jock up and put him in the fork of a big main branch about six feet from the ground. The effect was magical. The whole of the top of the tree seemed to whip and rustle at once, and in two seconds there was not a monkey left. Then a wave in the top of a small tree some distance off betrayed them, and we gave Chase a useless, romping schoolboy Chase. They were in the small trees away from the river, and it was easy to see and follow them, and to add to the fun and excitement I threw stones at the branches behind them. Their excitement and alarm became hysterical, and as we dotted about to hid them off they were several times obliged to scamper a few yards along the ground to avoid me and gain other trees. It was then that Jock enjoyed himself most. He ran at them and made flying leaps and snaps as they sprang up the trees out of reach. It was like a caricature of children in one of their make-believe chases. The screams, grimaces and actions were so human that it would have seemed like a tragedy had one of them been hurt. They got away into the big trees once more to Jock's disappointment, but greatly to my relief, for I was quite pumped from the romp and laughter. The river at this point was broken into several sluices by islands formed of piles of rocks on which there were a few stunted trees and dense growths of tall reeds, and here and there little spits and fringes of white sand were visible. There was plenty of small game in that part, and it was a great place for crocodiles. As we were then about half a mile below where Mungo had been left, I strolled along the bank on the lookout for a shot, frequently stopping to examine suspicious-looking rocks on the sand spits or at the borders of the reed fringes on the little islands. The shooting of crocodiles was an act of war. It was enmity and not sport or a desire for trophies that prompted it, and when it did not interfere with other chances we never missed a practice shot at these fellows. I picked out several rocks so suspicious-looking that I would have had a shot at them had there been a clear chance, and twice while I was trying to make them out, they slid silently into the water before there was time to fire. However, further on there came a better chance than any. There was something so peculiar about the look of this rock that I picked a good spot and sat down to watch it, and presently the part nearest me turned slightly, just enough to show me that it was a crocodile lying on the flat sand with his nose towards me and his tail hidden in the reeds. It was fifty yards away, and from where I sat there was not much to aim at, as a martini bullet would glance from almost any part of that polished hard case if it struck at such an angle. I was sitting on the bank above the shelving beach of the river on which a dense mass of reeds grew, and the waving feathery tops partly obscured the sight. I know the bullet hit him somewhere because he bounded with astonishing strength and activity several feet in the air, and his tail slashed through the reeds like a mighty scythe. The huge jaws opened, and he gave a horrible, angry bellow, somewhere between a roar and a snarl as he plunged into the river, sending masses of spray and water flying every way. He made straight across, apparently at me swimming on top of the water at amazing speed, and throwing up a wave on either side, and a white swirl of foam from the propelling tail. It was certainly a most surprising and unheard of proceeding, and as he reached my side of the stream, and because hidden from me by the screen of reeds at my feet, I turned and bolted. It may be that he came at me with murderous intent, or it may be that, blinded by rage or pain, he came towards me simply because he happened to be facing that way, but whatever the reason it was painfully clear that if he meant business he would be on to me before it was possible to see him in the reeds. That was enough for me! It had never occurred to me that there was going to be any fun in this for the crocodile, but one sense of humour and justice was always being stimulated in the bush-field. With twenty yards of open ground between us I turned and waited, but no crocodile appeared, nor was there a sound to be heard in the reeds. A few minutes wait, a cautious return, a careful scrutiny, and then resort to sticks and stones, but all to no purpose. There was neither sign nor sound of the crocodile, and not being disposed to go into the reeds to look for something which I did not want, but might want me. I returned to Mungo, a little wiser it is true, but not unduly heady on that account. Half an hour's jogging along the bank, having failed to propose anything, I struck away from the river, taking a line through the bush towards camp, and eventually came across a small herd of blue wilderbears. Mungo's pricked ears and raised head warned me, but the grass being high it was not easy to see enough of them from the ground to place an effective shot, and before a chance offered they moved off slowly. I walked off to them leading Mungo and trying to get a fair opening on slightly higher ground. Presently half a dozen blackish things appeared above the tall grass, they were the heads of the wilderbears, all turned one way and all looking at us with ears wide spread. Only the upper halves of the heads were visible through the thinner tops of the grass, and even an ordinary standing shot was not possible. I had to go to a tree for support in order to tiptoe for the shot, and whilst in the act of raising my rifle the heads disappeared, but I took chance and fired just below where the last one had shown up. The builderbears were out of sight, hidden by grass six feet high, but a branch of the tree beside me served as a horizontal bar, and hoisting myself chin high I was able to see them again. In front of us there was a dry flay quite free of bush some two hundred yards across and four hundred yards long, and the builderbears had gone away to the right and were skirting the flay, apparently meaning to get round to the opposite side, avoiding the direct cut across the flay for reasons of their own. It occurred to me there must be a deep donger or perhaps a mud-hole in front which they were avoiding, but that it might be possible for me to get across or even halfway across in time to have another shot at them the next time they stopped to look back, as they were almost certain to do, so I ran straight on. One does not have to reason things out like that in actual practice. The conclusion comes instantly as if by instinct and no time is lost. To drop from the branch pick up the rifle and start running were all parts of one movement. Stooping slightly to prevent my bobbing hat from showing up in the grass tops, and holding the rifle obliquely before me as a sort of snow plow to clear the grass from my eyes, I made as good pace as the ground would allow. No doubt the rifle held in front of me made it difficult to notice anything on the ground, but the concentrated stare across the flay in the direction of the galloping builderbears was quite as much the cause of what followed. Going fast and stooping low with all my weight thrown forward, I ran right into a builderbears' cow. My shot had wounded her through the kidneys, completely paralyzing the hindquarters, and she had instantly dropped out of sight in the grass. The only warning I got was a furious snort, and the black looking monster with great blazing bloodshot eyes rose up on its front legs as I ran into it. To charge into a wounded builderbears ready to go for you, just when your whole attention is concentrated upon others two hundred yards beyond, is nearly as unpleasant as it is unexpected. It becomes a question of what will happen to you, rather than of what you will do, that at any rate was my experience. The rifle, if it attended me, also helped. Held out at arm's length it struck the builderbears across the ford, and the collision saved my chest from the horns. There was an angry toss of the big head, and the rifle was twirled out of my hand as one might flip a match away. I do not know exactly what happened. The impression is of a breathless second's whirl in scramble, and then finding myself standing untouched five yards away with the half-paralyzed builderbears squatting like a dog, and struggling to drag the useless hindquarters along in its furious effort to get a jock who had already intervened to help me. The rifle lay within the circle of the big hooked horns, and the squatting animal making a pivot of its hindquarters slewed round and round, making savage lunges a jock and great heaves at me each time I tried to get the rifle. It often happens the shots touching the kidney's producer paralysis, temporarily severe, which passes off to a great extent after some minutes, and leaves the wounded animal well able to charge. It happened to me some years later while trying to photograph a wounded sable. I tried to hook the gun out with a stick, but the builderbears swung round and faced me at once, snapping the sticks and twirling them out of my hands with surprising ease and quickness. I then tried another game, and by making faint attacks from the other side at last got the animal gradually worked away from my gun, and the next attempted raking was successful. When the excitement was over and there was a chance of taking stock of the position, I found that jock had a pretty good gravel rash on one hip and a nasty cut down one leg. He had caught the builderbears by the nose the instant I ran into it, and it had wiped the floor with him and flung him aside. I found my bandolier with the broken buckle lying on the grass. One shirt sleeve was ripped open. The back of the right hand cut across, hands and knees were well grated, and there were lumps and bruises about the legs, for which there was no satisfactory explanation. I must have scrambled out like an unwilling participant in a dogfight. It was a long job skinning, cutting up and packing the builderbears, and when we reached the art span the wagons had already started, and we had a long tramp before us to catch them. I drove Mungo before me, keeping him at an easy jog. We had been going for possibly an hour, and it was quite dark, except for the stars and the young moon low down on our right. The road was soft, and Mungo's jogging paces sounded like floppy pats. There was no other sound at all, not even a distant rumble from the wagons to cheer us. Mungo must have been sick of it, and one might have thought him jogging in his sleep, but for the occasional pricking of his ears, a trick that always makes me wonder how much more do horses see in the dark than we do. I walked like a machine with rifle on shoulder, and glad to be rid of the broken bandolier, then transferred to Mungo, and Jock trotted at my heels. This tired, monotonous progress was disturbed by Mungo. His ears pricked, his head went up, and he stopped, looking hard at a big low bush on our left. I gave him a tap with a switch, and without an instant hesitation he dashed off to the right, making a half circle through the felt and coming into the road again fifty yards ahead, and galloped away leaving a rising column of dust behind him. I stood and faced the bush that Mungo had shied at, and the first thing that occurred to me was that my bandolier and cartridges were with the phony. Then Jock growled low, and moved a few steps forward and slightly to the right, also sharing off from that bush. I felt that he was bristling all over, but there was neither time nor light to watch him. I stepped slowly sideways after him, gripping the rifle, and looking hard at the bush. Our line was much the same as Mungo's, and would take us some seven or eight paces off the road. More than that was not possible owing to the barrier of thorns on that side. When we got abreast of the bush, two large spots of pale light appeared in the middle of it, apparently waist high from the ground. It is impossible to forget that tense, creepy feeling caused by the dead stillness, the soft light and the pale expressionless glow of those eyes, the haunting mystery of eyes, and nothing more. It is not unusual to see eyes in the night, but this was a nervy occasion, and there is no other that comes back, with all the vividness and reality of the experience itself as this one does, and I was not the only nervous one. Mungo incontinently bolted, probably what he saw warranted it. Jock, as ever faced it, but when my foot touched his hind leg as we cycled away, he flew round in a convulsive jump. He too was strung to concert pitch. As we moved on and passed the reflecting angle of the moon, the light of the eyes went out, as suddenly and silently as it had appeared. There was nothing then to show me where the danger lay, but Jock knew, and I kept a watch on him. He jogged beside me, lagging slightly as if to cover our retreat, always looking back. A couple of times he stopped entirely and stood in the road, facing straight back, and growling, and I followed suit. He was in command. He knew. There was nothing more. Gradually Jock's subdued purring growl died down, and the glances back became fewer. I found Mungo a long way on, bought to a standstill by the slipping of his load, and we caught up to the wagons of the next arts band. Chapter 22 The Old Crocodile We reached the crocodile river drift on a Sunday morning after a particularly dry and dusty night track. Wanting a watch did not on such occasion mean a mild inclination for a luxury. It meant that washing was badly needed. The dust lay inches deep on the one worn felt road, and the long strings of oxen toiling along, kicked up suffocating clouds of fine dust, which there was seldom any breeze to carry off. It powdered white man and black to an equal level of yellowy red. The wagons were a couple of hundred yards from the river, and taking a complete change, I went off for a real clean up. We generally managed to get in a couple of beds at the rivers, real swims, but that was only done in the regular drifts and when there were people about or wagons crossing. In such conditions crocodiles rarely appeared. They preferred solitude and silence. The swims were very delightful but somewhat different from ordinary bades. However remote may have been the risk of meeting a crocodile when you dived, or of being grabbed by one as you swam, the idea was always there, and it made it more interesting. Being alone that day, I had no intention of having a swim or of going into the open river, and I took a little trouble to pick a suitable pool with a rock on which to stand and dress. The water was clear and I could see the bottom of the pool. It was quite shallow, three feet deep at most, made by a scour in the sandy bed and divided from the mainstream by a narrow spit of sand a couple of yards wide and twenty long. At the top end of the sand spit was a flat rock, my dressing table. After a dip in the pool, I stood on the sand spit to scrub off the brown dust, keeping one unsoaked eye roving round for intrusive crocodiles, and the loaded rifle lying beside me. The brute slide out so silently and unexpectedly that in that exposed position with water all round, one could not afford to turn one's back on any quarter for long. There is something laughable. It seemed faintly humorous even then, in the idea of a naked man hastily washing soap out of his eyes and squeezing away the water to take a hurried look behind him, and then, after careful survey, doing an altogether douse, just as hastily, blowing and spluttering all the time like a boy after his first dive. The bath was successful and ended without incident, not a sign of a crocodile the whole time. Breakfast was ready when I reached the wagons, and, feeling very fit and clean, in a fresh flannel shirt and white moleskins, I sat down to it. Jim McAukell brought the kettle of coffee from the fire, and was in the act of pouring some into a big mug when he stopped with a grunt of surprise, and, looking towards the river, called out sharply, What is it? One of the herd boys was coming at a trot towards us, and the drivers, thinking something had happened to the oxen, called a question to him. He did not answer until he reached them, and even then spoke in so quiet a tone that I could not catch what he said. But Jim, putting down the kettle, ran to his wagon, and, grabbing his sticks and asseguys, called to me in a husky, shouting, whisper, which imperfectly describes Jim's way of relieving his feelings, without making the whole world echo. In quenya, in course, in quenya, in gulu, big crocodile, crude crocodile, boss. Then, abandoning his excited polyglot, he gabbled off in pure zulu at an incredible speed, a long account of the big crocodile. It had carried off four boys going to the gold fields that year. It had taken a woman and a baby from the crown nearby, but a white man had beaten it off with a bucket. It had taken all the dogs and even calves and goats at the drinking place, and goodness knows how much more. How Jim got his news, and when he made his friends, were puzzles never solved. Hunting stories, like Traveller's Tales, are proverbially dangerous to reputations, however literally true they may be. And this is necessarily so, partly because only exceptional things are worth telling, and partly because the conditions of the country or the life referred to are unfamiliar and cannot be grasped. It is a depressing but accepted fact that the ideal, lurid, and I suppose convincing pictures of wildlife, are done in London, where the author is unhampered by fact or experience. Stick to the impossible, and you will be believed. Keep clear of fact and commonplace, and you cannot be checked. Such was the cynical advice given many years ago by one who had bought his experience in childhood and could not forget it. Sent home as a small boy from a mission station in Zululand to be educated by his grandparents, he found the demands for marvels among his simple country relatives so great that his small experience of snakes and wild animals was soon used up. But the eager suggestive questions of the good people young and old led him on, and he shyly crossed the border. The fields of fancy were fair and free, there were no fences there, and he stepped out gaily into the little people's country, the land of Let's Pretendia. He became very popular. One day, however, whilst looking at the cows, he remarked that in Zululand a cow would not yield her milk unless the calf stood by. The old farmer stopped in his walk, gave him one suspicious look, and asked coldly, What do they do when a calf is killed or dies? They never kill the calves there, the boy answered, but once when one died father stuffed the skin with grass and showed it to the cow because they said that would do. The old man, red with anger, took the boy to his room, saying that as long as he spoke of the lions, tigers and snakes that he knew about, they believed him, but when it came to farming, no, downright lying he would not have, and there was nothing for it but luriping. It was the only piece of solid truth they had allowed me to tell for months, he added thoughtfully, and I got a first class hiding for it. And was there no one who doubted Doochialu and Stanley and others? Did no one question Gordon's coming story of the herd of elephants caught and killed in a little cloof, and did not we of Barboton many years later locate the spot by the enormous pile of bones and named it Elephant's Cloof? There are two crocodile incidents well known to those who time has now made old hands, but believed by no one else, even in the day of their happening they divided men into believers and unbelievers. The one was of Mad Owen, only Mad, because utterly reckless, riding through Kamati Drift one moonlight night alone and unarmed, who, riding, found his horse brought to a stop, plunging, kicking, and struggling on the sandbank in midstream where the water was not waist deep. Owen, looking back, saw that a crocodile had his horse by the leg. All he had was a leaded hunting crop, but jumping into the water he laid on so vigorously that the crocodile made off, and Owen remounted and rode out. There are many who say it is not true, that it cannot be true, for no man would do it. But there are others who have an open mind because they knew Owen, Mad Owen, who for a wager bandaged his horse's eyes and galloped him over a twenty-foot bank headlong into the juice-hole in Leidenburg. Owen, who when driving four young horses in a cape-cart, flung the reins away and whipped up the team, bellowing with laughter because his nervous companion said he had never been upset and did not want to be. Owen, who, but too many things rise up that earned him his title and blow the impossible to the winds. Mad Owen deserves a book to himself, but here is my little testimony on his behalf, given shame-faced at the thought of how he would roar to think it needed. I crossed that same drift one evening, and on riding up the bank to Furley's store, saw a horse standing in an ejected attitude, with one hind leg clothed in trousers made of sacking, and held up by a suspender ingeniously fastened across his back. During the evening something reminded me of the horse, and I asked a question, and at the end of Furley's answer was, they say it's all a yarn about horse whip and a crocodile. All we know is that one night, a week ago, he turned up here dripping wet, and after having a drink, told us the yarn. He had the leaded hunting crop in his hand, and that's the horse he was riding. You can make what you like of it. We've been doctoring the horse ever since, but I doubt if it will pull through. I have no doubt about the incident. Owen did not invent. He had no need to, and Furley himself was no mean judge of crocodiles and men. Furley kept a ferryboat for the use of natives and others when the river was up, at half a krona trip. The business ran itself and went strong during the summer floods, but in winter when the river was low and affordable it needed pushing, and then Furley's boatman, an intelligent native, would loiter about the drift and interest travellers in his crocodile stories, and if they proved over confident or skeptical, would manoeuvre them a little way down the stream, where from the bank they would usually see a big crocodile sunning himself on the sand spit below the drift. The boys always took the boat. One day some police entered the store and joyously announced that they had got him, bag the old villain at last, and Furley dropped on a sack of mealies groaning out, glory boys, the ferries ruined, why I've preserved him for years. The other crocodile incident concerns lying Tom, brave, merry-faced blue-eyed Tom, bubbling with good humour, overflowing with kindness, and full of the wildest yarns, always good and amusing, but so steep that they made the most case-hardened draw a long breath. The name Lying Tom was understood and accepted by everyone in the place, barring Tom himself. For, oddly enough, there was another Tom of the same surname, but no relation, and once, when his name cropped up, I heard the real Simon Pure refer to him as, my namesake, the chap they call Lying Tom. To the day of his death Tom believed that it was the other Tom who was esteemed the liar. Tom was a prospector who came in occasionally for supplies or licences, and there came a day when Barbaton was convulsed by Lying Tom's latest. He had been walking along the bank of the crocodile river, and on hearing screams ran down just in time to see a kappa woman with a child on her back dragged off through the shallow water by a crocodile. Tom ran into help. I kicked the dash-thing on the head and in the eyes, he said, and punched at ribs, and then grabbed the bucket that the woman had in her hand, and hammered the blame-thing over the head till it let go. By Jiminy boys, the woman was in a mess, never saw anyone in such a fright. Poor Tom suffered from consumption in the throat, and talked in husky jerks, broken by coughs and laughter. Is there one among them who knew him who did not remember the breezy cheeriness, the indomitable pluck, the merry blue eyes, so limpidly clear, the expressive, bushy eyebrows and the teeth, too perfect to be wasted on a man, and even flashing with his unfailing smiles. Tom would end up with, niggers say I was Takati, asked for some of my medicine. Blamed niggers got no pluck would have let the woman go. Of course this story went the rounds as Tom's latest and best, but one day we turned up in Barbotin to deliver our loads, and that evening a whisper went about, and men with faces humorously puzzled looked at one another, and said, lying Tom's afraud, the crocodile story is true. For our party shooting guinea fowl in the caffer land along the river, came upon a cry where there such a woman with her arm so scarred and marked that we could not but ask what had caused it. There was no difference in the stories, except that the caffers after saying that the white men had kicked the crocodile and beat it with the bucket, added, and he kicked and beat with the bucket the two men who were there, saying that there were not men but dogs who would not go in and help the woman, but he was bewitched the crocodile would not touch him. Some of Tom's stories were truly incredible, but not those in which he figured to advantage. He was too brave a man to have consciously gained credit he did not deserve. He died, slowly starved to death by the cruel disease. The brave, kindly, cheery spirit smiling unbeaten to the end. That was what Jim referred to when he called me to kill the murderer of women and children. It pleased him and others to say that it was the same crocodile, and I believe it was. The locality was the same and the Crow boys said that it was the old place from which all the murderous raids had been made and that was all we knew. I took the rifle and went up with the herd boy. Jim followed close behind, walking on his toes with the walsy springy movements of an ostrich, eager to get ahead and repeatedly silenced and driven back by me in the few hundred yards walk to the river. A queer, premonitory feeling came over me as I saw we were making straight for the bathing pool, but before reaching the bank the herd boy squatted down, indicating that somewhere in front and below us the enemy would be found. An easy crow brought me to the river bank and sure enough, on the very spot where I had stood to wash only fifty yards from us there was an enormous crocodile. He was lying along the sand spit with his full length exposed to me. Such a shot would have been a moral certainty, but as I brought the rifle slowly up it may have glinted in the sun, or perhaps the crocodile had been watching us all the time, for with one easy turn and no splash at all he slid into the river and was gone. It was very disgusting and I pitched into Jim and the other boys behind me for having made a noise and shown themselves, but they were all still squatting when I reached them and vowed they had not moved nor spoken. We had already turned to go when they came a distant call from beyond the river. To me it was merely a calf's voice and a sound quite meaningless, but to the boys' trained ears it spoke clearly. Jim pressed me downwards and we all squatted again. He is coming out on another sand bank, Jim explained. Again I called the bank and lay flat with the rifle ready. There was another sand streak a hundred yards out in the stream with two outcroppings of black rock at the upper end of it. There were rocks right enough, for I had examined them carefully when bathing. This was the only other sand bank in sight. It was higher than it appeared to be from a distant, and the crocodile whilst hidden from us was visible to the natives on the opposite bank as it lay in the shallow water and emerged inch by inch to resume its morning sunbath. The crocodile was so slow in showing up that I quite thought it had been scared off again and I turned to examine other objects and spots up and down the stream, but presently glancing back at the bank, again I saw what appeared to be a third rock no bigger than a loaf of bread. This object I watched until my eyes ached and swam. It was the only possible crocodile, yet it was so small so motionless, so permanent looking, it seemed absurd to doubt that it really was a stone which had passed unnoticed before. As I watched unblinkingly, it seemed to grow bigger and again attract with regular swing as if it swelled and shrank with breathing and knowing that it must nearly be an optical delusion caused by staring too long I shut my eyes for a minute. The effect was excellent, the rock was much bigger and after that it was easy to lie still and wait for the cunning old reptile to show himself. It took half an hour of this cautious manoeuvring and edging on the part of the crocodile before he was actively settled on the sand with the sun warming all his back. In the meantime the wagon boys behind me had not stirred. On the opposite side of the river cappers from the neighbouring crawl had gathered to a number of 30 or 40 men, women and children and they stood loosely grouped instinctively still, silent and watchful, like a little scattered herd of deer. All on both sides were watching me and waiting for the shot. It seemed useless to delay longer the whole length of the body was showing but it looked so wanting and thickness, so shallow in fact that it was evident the crocodile was lying not on top but on the other slope of the sandspot and probably not more than six or eight inches in depth of body was visible. It was little enough to aim at and the bullet seemed to strike the top of the bank first sending up a column of sand plowed into the body with a tremendous thump. The crocodile threw a back somersault that is it seemed to rear up on its tail and spring backwards the jaws divided into a huge fork as for a second it stood up on end and it let out an enraged roar seemingly aimed at the heavens. It was a very sudden and dramatic effect following on the long silence. Then the whole world seemed to burst into indescribable turmoil. Shouts and yells burst out on all sides. The cappers rushed down to the banks the men armed with sticks and asagais and the women and children with nothing more formidable than their voices the crocodile was alive very much alive and in the water the wagon boys headed by Jim were all round me and all yelling out together what should or should not be done and what would happen if we did or did not do it it was babel and bedlam let loose with the first plunge the crocodile disappeared but it came up again ten yards away thrashing the water into foam and going upstream like a paddle boat going reeling roaring mad if one can imagine such a thing I had another shot at him the instant he reappeared but one could neither see nor hear where it struck and again and again I fired whenever he showed up for a second he appeared to be shot through the lungs at any rate the cappers on the other bank who were then quite close enough to see said that it was so the wagon boys had run down the bank out onto the first sandspot and I followed them shouting to the cappers opposite to get out of the line of fire as I could no longer shoot without risk of hitting them the crocodile after his first straight dash upstream had tacked about in all directions in the next few minutes disappeared for short spells and plunging out again in unexpected places one of these sudden reappearances brought him once more abreast and quite near to us and Jim with a fierce yell and with his asagai held high in his right hand dashed into the water going through the shallows in wild leaps I called to him to come back but against his yells and the excited shouts of the ever-increasing crowd my voice could not live and Jim mad with excitement went on 20 yards out where increasing depth steadied him he turned for a moment and seeing himself alone in the water called to me with eager confidence come on boss it had never occurred to me that anyone would be such an idiot to go into water after a wounded crocodile there was no need to finish off this one for it was bound to die and no one wanted the meat or skin who then would be so mad as to think of such a thing five minutes earlier I would have answered very confidently for myself but there are times when one cannot afford to be sensible there was a world of unconscious irony in Jim's choice of words come on and boss the boy giving the lead to his master was too much for me and in I went I cannot say that there was much enjoyment in it for the first few moments not until the excitement took hold and all else was forgotten the first thing that struck me was that in the deep water my rifle was worth no more than a walking stick and not nearly as useful as an asagai but what drove this and many other thoughts from my mind in a second was the appearance of jock on the stage and his sudden jump into the leading place in the first confusion he had passed unnoticed probably at my heels as usual but the instant I answered Jim's challenge by jumping into the water he gave one whimpering yelp of excitement and plunged in too and in a few seconds he had out distance at all and was leading straight for the crocodile I shouted at him of course in vain he heard nothing and Jim and I plunged and struggled along to head the dog off as the crocodile came up straight for him his eyes gleaming his shoulders up his nose out his neck straight to the utmost in his eagerness and he plowed along straining every muscle to catch up when the crocodile went under he slackened and looked anxiously about but each fresh rise was greeted by the whimpering yelps of intense suppressed excitement as he fairly hoisted himself out of the water with the vigor of his swimming the water was now and we were far out in the stream beyond the sand spit where the crocodile had lain when the cappers on the bank got their first chance and a flight of asagais went at the enemy as he rose several struck and two remained in him he rose again a few yards from Jim and that sportsman let fly won that struck well home Jock who had been toiling close behind for some time and gaining slowly was not five yards off then the floundering and lashing of the crocodile were bewildering but on he went as grimly and eagerly as ever I fired again not more than eight yards away but the water was then up to my arms and it was impossible to pick a vital part the brain and neck were the only spots to finish him but one could see nothing beyond a great upheaval of water and clouds of spray and blood stained firm the crocodile turned from the shot and dived upstream heading straight for Jock the din of yelling voices stopped instantly as the huge open mouth thing plunged towards the dog and for one sick horrified moment I stood and watched helpless had the crocodile risen in front of Jock that would have been the end one snap would have done it but had passed clear underneath him and coming up just beyond him the flashing tail sent the dog up with a column of water a couple of feet in the air he did as he had done when the kudubul tossed him his head was round straining to get at the crocodile before he was able to turn his body in the water and the silence was broken by a yell of wild delight and approval from the bank before us the water was too deep and the stream too strong to stand in Jim and his eagerness had gone in shoulder high and my rifle when aimed only just cleared the water the crocodile was the mark for more asagais from the bank as it charged upstream again with Jock tailing behind and it was then easy enough to follow its movements by the shafts that were never all submerged the struggles became perceptively weaker and as it turned again to go with the stream every effort was concentrated on killing and landing it before it reached the rocks and rapids I moved back for higher ground and finding that the bed shelved up rapidly downstream made for a position where there would be enough elevation to put in a brain shot the water was not more than waist high then and as the crocodile came rolling and thrashing down I waited for his head to show up clearly my right foot touched a sloping rock which rose almost to the surface of the water close above the rapids and anxious to get to the best possible position for the last shot I took my stand there the rock was the ordinary shelving bedrock up tilted at an easy angle and cut off shear on the exposed side and the wave in the current would have shown this to anyone not wholly occupied with other things but I had eyes for nothing except the crocodile which was then less than a dozen yards off and in my anxiety to secure a firm footing for the shot I moved the right foot again a few inches over the edge of the rock the result was a complete spill as if one unthinkingly stepped backwards off a diving board I disappeared in deep water with the knowledge that the crocodile would join me there in a few seconds one never knows how these things are done or how long they take I was back on the rock without the rifle and had the water out of my eyes in time to see the crocodile roll helplessly by six feet away with jock behind making excited but ridiculously futile attempts to get hold of the tail Jim swimming, plunging and blowing like a maddened hippo formed the tail of the procession which was headed by my waterlogged hat floating heavily a yard or so in front of the crocodile while a crowd of yelling niggers under the generalship of Jim were landing the crocodile I had time to do some diving I managed to fish out my rifle my Sunday change was wasted but we got the old crocodile and that was something after all End of Chapter 22