LITMIR.BIZ

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flew off – whizz! – whang! – but when I picked the stick up, there it were. I jes’ stood there ponderin’ over the strangeness o’ this, when a breath o’ wind come up the valley with a sigh on it – one o’ those quiverin’, mysterious, solumnelly sounds that makes you look over yer shoulder an’ start at a shadder. ‘Hambaka – trek,’ I cried, an’ whirling the whip around, touched up the fore-leaders, then brought the forslag down on the achter ox. I told you them oxen had stuck fas’. Well! at the touch o’ the whip they jes’ laid their shoulders agin the yokes, an’, with a low groan, they yanked the wagon up that stiff bit – up an’ up, without a pause, to the level veld. I tell you, sonny, I never seed oxen lay themselves down like that span.”

      “Where does the kindness come in?”

      “Hole on. The tortoise gets to the end o’ his journey same as the hare, only samer. On the level I called to the oxen to whoa! – whoa! – whoa! – and, arter a time they whoa’d, tho’ somehow ’twas ag’inst their will. They were that active they could have trotted home – they could so. I lay down that whip an’ filled my pipe.”

      “Yes?”

      “Then I took the stick up, an’ the thong were gone agin.”

      “What!”

      “Clean gone, sonny! Clean gone!”

      “Did it fly off?”

      “No, sonny; it crawled off.”

      “Crawled off?”

      “That there thong were a whip-snake. It jes’ gripped on ter the bamboo with its jaws to help me outer that stick fas’, an’ when we got to the level it unhitched. It knew as well as I did the oxen didn’t want any more whip when the flat were reached, and it unhitched.”

      “Uncle Abe Pike! Do you expect me to believe that?”

      “I have my hopes, my lad. But when yer gets older you’ll get more faith. Why, man, an’ I yeared that snake move off. It give a sort o’ friendly hiss as it slid away thro’ the grass, an’ it cracked its tail in sport like a whip. The oxen yeared it, too, and they moved off ’thout waitin’ for my call. I tell you there’s a heap o’ goodness among animiles an’ reptiles, tho’ this is the fust time I ’xperienced the thoughtfulness o’ a snake. It jes’ snapped its tail – ker – rack – as it moved off.”

      When the old man prepared himself for sleep I saw the lash off my whip projecting from the mouth of his skin bag.

      Chapter Five

      The Spook of the Hare

      The next day was hot and drowsy, and old man Pike simply lazed around, with his smasher hat tilted over his eyes and his hands in his pockets. He could not, however, be tempted to roam any distance from the house, and he showed not the slightest curiosity about that fiend of a black tiger, which in the night had killed a goat belonging to one of the “boys.” The kill was made out of sheer lust of blood, for he had eaten nothing, the body being untouched, except for the festering marks about the throat I had the carcase brought up for Abe’s inspection, since he would not walk down to the kraal, and he held an inquest upon it, sitting on an upturned “vatje,” or small water barrel.

      “That goat,” he drawled, “were killed!”

      “There seems proof of it,” I said mildly.

      “Yes, killed by a ole tiger.”

      “Why old?”

      “Well, you see, this yer goat died o’ a broken shoulder an’ shock – mostly shock. The tiger just patted the shoulder in his spring with the open paw. I see there are four scratches, an’ the hook of the dew claw over here, a span away from the fore claws. The middle an’ end scratch is shaller. Why? Cas the claws a been worn down. Now take these yer wounds in the throat. These two deep holes here’s where his fangs went in, but on the top side there’s jest the marks o’ his small teeth. The upper fangs is missing or worn down. Consekently, ’tis a ole tiger.”

      “And you will catch the old tiger?”

      “Not me! Bein’ ole, he’s cunnin’, an’ bein’ black, he’s naturelly fierce; and bein’ ole an’ black he’s more’n a match fer me. See that big blue fly? I swear there warn’t a blue fly around here ten minutes ago, an’ now there’s a whole cloud o’ ’em followin’ the track, an’ buzzin’ like a telegraph wire! Little things is like big ’uns. That there fly is like the first aasvogel sailin’ away from the limits o’ the sky on the taint of a dead ox, an’ behind him a whole string o’ vultures, with their wings outstretched like the sails of a ship, an’ ther bald heads bent down to spot the dead heap of corruption miles away below.”

      I bade the Kaffir take away the dead goat which formed the principal dish at the feast that night and, getting my double-barrelled gun, whistled up the dogs, and went off on the spoor of the tiger, leaving Abe listlessly whittling at a stick.

      The scent was good, and the dogs went on it still-mouthed, except for an occasional growl, and they led me through the large ostrich camp, over a ridge, across an open strip of veld, to a deep and dark kloof, where the trees grew so thick that underneath it was twilight in the glare of mid-day. The dogs went on, with bristling hair, into the heart of the kloof, when a singular thing happened. The shrill, piercing cry of a “dassie,” or rock coney, arose from out the deep silence, and the dogs stopping, howled dismally, then suddenly turned and slipped away, disappearing like shadows among the trees. The noise I knew must have aroused the tiger, but I pushed on cautiously, hoping to get a shot at him as he slunk off. I reached the krantz which rimmed in the kloof without sight of him, and, hunting around, found his lair, still warm in a small cave. Retracing my steps, I had almost reached the edge of the trees, when in the way lay the body of one of the dogs, an old and favourite buffalo dog of the mastiff breed, his throat torn, and the mark of claws on his shoulder and flank.

      “It’s lucky for you,” said Abe when I reached home, “that it were the dog he took.”

      “How do you know he got the dog?”

      “You went out with five, an’ you come home with four, an’ a look on your face ’s if you’d seen a ghost. I’m gwine back in the mornin’.”

      “You’re no friend of mine, Abe Pike, if you don’t help destroy that brute!”

      “I seed the ole man baboon makin’ tracks for my place this arternoon – an’ mebbe that ther’ tiger would be quittin’ too.”

      “Hang you and your baboon!”

      “All serene, sonny – all serene. I’d rayther be hanged than ’ave my wizened open’d out by a blood-sucking four-footed witch. What happened in your hunt?” I told him curtly enough. “My gum! You believe me: that dassie cried out to warn the tiger. He were put there to watch while his master slep’.”

      “Nonsense! His cry was an accident.”

      “Soh! Then tell me why the dogs scooted. You don’t know! O’ course you don’t know. But I know. I’ve had ’xperience o’ the same thing. Animiles have got a sense which is missin’ from folk, or maybe lost for want of use, I don’t know which, tho’ myself I think it’s lost. What we call a presentment is the remains o’ that missin’ sense, an’ animiles is got the full sense. Those dogs knew the meanin’ o’ that dassie’s yell – that’s so.”

      “And what was your experience?”

      “It were all along o’ a spring hare hopping along in the night – without enough solid body to put a shot in. It were away back in the sixties, when I were younger nor I am now, an’ a sailor chap, knockin’ around doin’ odd jobs, happened across my house. He were a good-hearted critter, tho’ terrible lazy, ’xcept it were shootin’ spring hares at night by lamp-light, which came ’xpensive by reason of his usin’ up the oil an’ powder. Well, one night the wind came off the seas, bringing up a great stack of clouds, makin’ it that dark you couldn’t tell which were solid yearth an’ which were sky; but this sailor chap he would go out, an’ I had to go

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