"Good man!" he said. "But what on earth is the fellow up to?"

Next moment both he and Ferrier were shaking their sides with laughter, almost hysterical now that the tension was relaxed. The Bengali, too much overcome with terror to be aware of his safety, was scrambling up a thorn tree with an agility that would have done credit to a slimmer man.

Up he went, frantically swinging himself from bough to bough. Half way up he lost his puggaree, s.n.a.t.c.hed from his head by a long spike, and every stage of his ascent was marked by little bits of his white cotton dhoti left clinging to the branches. For some moments John was helpless with laughter, but at last he managed to shout to Said Mohammed to come down, for the beast was dead. The shout only made him climb the faster, nor did he stop until he was perched on the topmost branch, his white robe flapping in tatters about him. Nothing would induce him to budge until the lion's head had been cut off, to be carried back to the farm as a trophy. Then he descended, much more slowly than he had mounted, and with a piteous effort to regain his dignity that was too much for John and Ferrier, who turned their backs so that he should not see their amus.e.m.e.nt.

These excitements were considered enough for one day, and the party set off for home, the natives carrying the lion's head and shouting a song of triumph. John said nothing to Said Mohammed until he thought his composure was restored. Then he said--

"I owe you my life, khansaman. It was very plucky of you to draw the lion after you, and I shan't forget it.--Shut up!" he whispered to Ferrier, who emitted a sort of gurgle.

A gratified smile stole across the Bengali's face.

"I am quite bucked, sir," he said. "Your words are sweeter than honey.

When your honoured parent returns to this vale of woe, my heart will be in my mouth when I say to him: 'Lo! here is your progeny, whom I, Said Mohammed, failed B.A. of Calcutta University, saved from the jaws of the lion. If I had not been on the spot he would have been absolutely up a gum-tree.'"

Ferrier guffawed.

"Why didn't you do as your uncle did in the Sunderbunds?" he asked presently, unable to resist the temptation of a sly dig at the failed B.A.

"The absence of one ingredient, sir, spoils the sauce. It was rotten nuisance, but I forgot _in toto_ the words of the charm."

CHAPTER THE TWELFTH--The Sack of the Farm

At breakfast on the day after the lion-hunt Ferrier, who was silent and seemed embarra.s.sed, said suddenly--

"I say, old boy, d'you know I've been here nearly two months?"

"What! Getting tired of it?" said John, with a smile.

"Not a bit; only--well, to put it straight, I've been here so long that I ought to pay for my keep."

"Rot!"

"I mean it. It's all very well to be your guest for a week or two, and I'm jolly comfortable, but to hang on like this--no, really, I ought to pay something to help keep the pot boiling."

"Now look here, Charles Ferrier, you're a very good sort, but I'm hanged if I stand that. If there's any talk of pay, I ought to pay you for your services. Five weeks in charge while I was droving--name your figure. Rounding up strayed cattle; looking after the natives--how much that lot? You do far more in a day than any hired man, as I believe you call 'em in your part of the world."

"Well, I like it, and I've nothing else to do; in fact, I've a great mind to settle about here myself, and I would, like a shot, if it weren't for Hilda. I'm afraid it wouldn't do to bring her among the lions, as your khansaman said. But here I am, learning all about it on the cheap, and with no responsibility."

"Look here, we'll leave it at that. I'm very glad of your company, to say nothing of your help, and as by the look of it that misguided father of mine has been hooked, and the widow must be rolling in money, I don't suppose we shall see him back here. He'll settle down in Park Lane, and die before his time of overfeeding. You stay on as long as you like, and if you're getting experience, I'm getting your services, so we'll cry quits."

So it was left. The two young fellows shared in the management of the farm. They found their time pretty fully occupied, and a portion of a letter which John wrote to his father a week or two later may be quoted as showing how affairs at the farm were progressing.

The rains have stopped, and I've got all the planting done. I'm trying some radish and rhubarb this season; also carrots, which Mr. Gillespie told me are good for the cattle. By the way, that bull we called Moses because he's fierce, is off his feed; I don't know what's wrong with him, and you might send me Barton's book on common ailments. I don't suppose you'll find a copy in Geneva, or wherever you are now, but if you're not too busy to send a card in London, I dare say I'll get it when Moses is dead.

"That'll touch him up, Charley; he'll think Moses would be all right if he were here."

I bought a few fat-tailed sheep from old Sobersides (the chief of the neighbouring village) the other day. He got them, he says, from a party of Rendili who were driven south of the Waso Nyiro by the drought in their own country. I don't suppose it's true, for Coja tells me the Rendili live a big long way beyond the mountain, and we've seen nothing of them.

Sobersides tells us, too, that a gang of Swahilis have established themselves somewhere north of Kenya, and are raiding the surrounding tribes. As they've got guns, I bet they're that sweep Juma and his crew. That's all we've heard of them since we licked them.

Ferrier is still here; says he's in loco parentis, and won't leave me till you return to your duties. I wonder if you tell the widow's children that you're in loco parentis?

The lions have been quiet lately, since Said Mohammed saved my life; but as the mistris had next to nothing to do and were getting too fat, I have set them to build a stronger boma, of stout poles fastened together with transverse logs. That ought to keep the beasts out; at any rate it will give the place more the look of a respectable stockyard.

I wish you'd ship a few merinos for cross-breeding. Our half-breeds aren't much good for wool. The May lambs were born with long coa.r.s.e hair, though they grew a poor sort of wool at three months. Wasama doesn't like the woolled sheep; he says they're not like the sheep of his country, and persists in believing that the first woolled beasts were the offspring of lions and hyenas. What ignorance! as old Martha used to say.

Out shooting the other day we saw a herd of zebras, and Ferrier has got a mad idea of catching some of the foals and taming them. We may try it if we come across them again, so don't be surprised if you see us riding to meet you on striped chargers. You, I expect, will be wearing striped trousers, light gloves, and a new silk topper.

The failed B.A. is a perpetual joy. His latest. Ferrier found a hair in his soup the other night. "Accept humble apologies, sir," says Said Mohammed, as he took it away. "In such circs. I can best cheer you up by reminding you of a verse of the little but divine Alexander Pope: 'And beauty draws us with a single hair.'" That may appeal to you, dad.

I hope your leg is all right, and you're enjoying yourself. _I've_ got to work for my living.

One day the younger Masai, who had taken a flock of sheep out to graze at the extreme west of the estate, came rushing in breathless and reported with intense excitement that the sheep had been driven off by some men who had pounced suddenly out of the bush. One was a Swahili, the rest negroes. They had carried him along with them for some distance and then let him go.

"How many were they?" asked John.

"Eight," replied the boy. "One had a gun."

"Which way did they go?"

The boy pointed to the west.

"We can tackle eight, Charley. Coja, saddle up the two best donkeys and bring us our rifles. This is something new, Charley. I wonder if it's our friend Juma again?"

"Rum thing, their letting the boy go, don't you think?" said Ferrier.

"They must know we'll be after them, especially if the Swahili is Juma; it's not the first time you've chased him."

"He reckons on getting away, or on our not finding the trail, I suppose.

We'll take Bill with us."

But when, riding their donkeys hard, they came to the little hut in the wood, they found that the Wanderobbo was not there.

"He's gone for honey, I suppose," said John. "Never mind; we oughtn't to find it difficult to track sheep."

They set off at full speed, and easily picked up the trail at the place where the marauders had rushed from their hiding-place in the bush. They followed it without difficulty so long as it led across gra.s.s country, but lost it for a time soon after they entered the bush, because there were evident signs that a herd of animals larger that sheep had recently forced a way. However, they recovered it again after ten minutes'

search, and found from that point that it led in almost a straight line--so straight that John was puzzled.

"I can't make out why they haven't tried to blind their trail and lead us astray," he said. "They must be very c.o.c.ksure, or else they're trying to ambuscade us. We'd better keep a sharp look-out."

They rode more slowly now, yet at a brisk pace, narrowly examining every specially thick bush as they approached it, and avoiding any clump of woodland that might give cover to the marauders.

Suddenly, when they were a good five miles, as John estimated, from the farm, on ascending a gradual slope they saw from its crest the flock of sheep placidly grazing on a little patch of gra.s.s about half-a-mile below. There was no sign of the raiders, and the surrounding bush being very thin, they must have been visible had they remained in the immediate vicinity. Cantering down towards the sheep, which scattered as they approached, the riders dismounted, rounded them up, and proceeded to count them.

"They're the Welsh crosses," said John. "Forty-nine--one missing. I can't make this out at all. Look, here's the trail of the men, let's follow it up. We'll tether the donkeys. The sheep won't leave this gra.s.s."

The trail led them straight towards a wood a mile further on. At the edge of this they saw clear signs of a sheep having been slaughtered and cut up. Entering the wood cautiously, they followed the trail for some distance, finding that it wound towards the north. Both were itching to punish the raiders, but the trail became more and more difficult to distinguish as the wood grew denser, and at length, hot and tired, and as much mystified as angry, they turned back and came out once more into the open.