Six Months at the Cape | Page 8

than life, and that Mike slackened his pace and began to grin. It
turned out that the objects were two carts with white canvas hoods, and
when we came up to them we found they belonged to a party who had
come out to join us, but who, up to that hour, had been unable to
discover us in the vast hunting-field!
After directing them to our camp we proceeded on our way. That is to
say Mike did. For myself, I was completely lost, and if left to myself
should have been quite unable to return to camp.
While galloping along, revelling in the sunshine--in the love of which I
will not yield to cats--we came suddenly on the largest snake I had yet
seen. It was, I believe, a cobra, must have been fully six feet long, if not
more, and was gliding with an easy sinuous motion over the plain as
fast apparently, as a man's ordinary running-pace. I observed that it did
not get out of the way of small bushes, but went straight through them
without the smallest check to its speed. It suddenly dived into a hole
and disappeared. It is said that when snakes take to a hole to escape
pursuit, some of them have a habit of causing their heads to stop
abruptly at the entrance, and allowing their bodies and tails to flip past
like the lash of a whip, so that if the pursuer were to thrust in his hand
to grasp the tail he would be met by the fangs! As the bite of most

South African snakes means death, if the part be not cut out, or
otherwise effectually treated, handling them is carefully avoided.
Nevertheless my friend Jonathan--when a younger man, let us
hope!--was in the habit of occasionally catching deadly snakes by the
tail, swinging them round his head, and dashing out their brains on a
stone or tree!
Soon we perceived two of our comrades driving a flock of springboks
towards the river. Mike at once diverged towards a clump of bushes
which it seemed probable they would pass. In ten minutes we were
down in a hollow, with the horses hid behind a mimosa-thorn. The boks
had not seen us, being too much taken up with their pursuers; they
came straight towards us.
"Now, sar," whispered Mike once again, while his eyes glared with
glee, "now's you chance!"
I went down on one knee, carefully sighted the rifle, and looked up.
The foremost bok was within good range. I fired and missed!
"Desolation!" said I, cramming in another cartridge while the flock
diverged to the left.
There was no hope now of anything but a running shot. I aimed
carefully. The smoke cleared off, the flock dashed on, but--one bok lay
prone upon the earth. Bang! went my second barrel, and another bok,
leaping into the air, fell, rose, fell again, then rose and ran on.
Mike was now jubilant. The whole internal structure of his mouth was
disclosed to view in his satisfaction, as he viewed the prostrate animal.
I may add that although we did not find the wounded bok that evening,
we found him next day.
With our prize strapped behind Mike's saddle we rode in triumph into
camp, a little before sunset, and found most of our companions
assembled, busy preparing supper and making other arrangements for
camping out on the veldt--as they call the plain. Some had been
successful, some had failed, but a good many springboks had been
killed, and all were hearty as crickets and hungry as hyenas.

To kindle fires, boil tea, roast venison steaks, spread blankets on the
ground, and otherwise attend to the duties of the bivouac, was now the
order of the hour. The moon rose while we were thus engaged, and
mingled her pale light with the ruddy blaze of camp-fires. We spoke
little and ate much. Then followed the inevitable pipe and the pleasant
chat, but we were all too ready for rest to care about keeping it up long.
I was constrained to take the bed of honour in the cart. The others
stretched their limbs on the Karroo, and in ten minutes every man was
in the land of nod.
Next day we mounted at daybreak and renewed the hunt, but I will say
no more about it than that we bagged twenty-six springboks amongst us,
and that Six-foot Johnny, having killed the greatest number of animals,
returned home "King of the hunt," with a scrap of ostrich feather in his
cap.

LETTER THREE.
SOMERSET--THE BRITISH SETTLERS--ORIGINAL
"OWNERS"--NATIVE CHURCH-GOING.
On my way to the Karroo I had to pass through Somerset East, and it so
fell out that I fell in with a countryman from Edinburgh, who chanced
to be