ade one of my many mistakes in life. Most of
us do more foolish things than wise ones and sometimes I think that
in spite of a certain reputation for caution and far-sightedness, I am
exceptionally cursed in this respect. Indeed, when I look back upon my
past, I can scarcely see the scanty flowers of wisdom that decorate
its path because of the fat, ugly trees of error by which it is
overshadowed.

On that occasion, forgetting past experiences where Hans was concerned,
my natural tendency to blunder took the form of relying upon another's
judgment instead of on my own. Although I had formed a certain view as
to what should be done, the _pros_ and _cons_ seemed so evenly balanced
that I determined to consult the little Hottentot and accept his
verdict. This, after all, was but a form of gambling like pitch and
toss, since, although it is true Hans was a clever, or at any rate a
cunning man according to his lights, and experienced, it meant that
I was placing my own judgment in abeyance, which no one considering
a life-and-death enterprise should do, taking the chance of that of
another, whatever it might be. However, not for the first time, I did
so--to my grief.

In the tiniest of whispers with my lips right against his smelly head, I
submitted the problem to Hans, asking him what we should do, go on or go
back. He considered a while, then answered in a voice which he contrived
to make like the drone of a night beetle.

"Those men are fast asleep, I know it by their breathing. Also the Baas
has the Great Medicine. Therefore I say go on, kill them and rescue
Sad-Eyes."

Now I saw that the Fates to which I had appealed had decided against me
and that I must accept their decree. With a sick and sinking heart--for
I did not at all like the business--I wondered for a moment what had
led Hans to take this view, which was directly opposite to any I had
expected from him. Of course his superstition about the Great Medicine
had something to do with it, but I felt convinced that this was not all.

Even then I guessed that two arguments appealed to him, of which
the first was that he desired, if possible, to put an end to this
intolerable and unceasing hunt which had worn us all out, no matter
what that end might be. The second and more powerful, however, was, I
believed, and rightly, that the idea of this stealthy, midnight blow
appealed irresistibly to the craft of his half-wild nature in which the
strains of the leopard a