fore, require a change sometimes to recruit our energies--that
is, to put us right again, whereas you and your friends live in a
natural way, and therefore don't require putting right. D'you
understand?"

"Not moch," answered the Caffre, gazing into the fire with a puzzled
look. "You say we lives nat'ral life an' don't need be put right; berry
good, why you not live nat'ral life too, an' no need be put right--be
always right?"

Tom laughed at this.

"It's not easy to answer that question, Mafuta. We have surrounded
ourselves with a lot of wants, some of which are right and some wrong.
For instance, we want clothes, and houses, and books, and tobacco, and
hundreds of other things, which cost a great deal of money, and in order
to make the money we must work late and early, which hurts our health,
and many of us must sit all day instead of walk or ride, so that we get
ill and require a change of life, such as a trip to Africa to shoot
lions, else we should die too soon. In fact, most of our lives consists
in a perpetual struggle between healthy constitutions and false modes of
living."

"Dat berry foolish," said Mafuta, shaking his head. "Me onderstan' dat
baccy good, _berry_ good, bot what de use of clo'es; why you not go
nakit? s'pose 'cause you not black, eh?"

"Well, not exactly. The fact is--"

At this point the conversation was interrupted by the low murmuring
growl of the lion. The two men gazed at one another earnestly and
listened. Tom quietly laid his hand on his rifle, which always lay
ready loaded at his side, and Mafuta grasped the handle of the knife
that hung at his girdle. For some minutes they remained silent and
motionless, waiting for a repetition of the sound, while the camp-fire
glittered brightly, lighting up the expressive countenance of our hero,
and causing the whites of Mafuta's eyes to glisten. Again they heard
the growl much nearer than before, and it became evident that the lion
was intent on claiming hospitality. The horses pricked up their ears,
snuffed the night air wildly, and showed every symptom of being ill at
ease. Tom Brown, without rising, slowly cocked his rifle, and Mafuta,
drawing his knife, showed his brilliant white teeth as if he had been a
dog.

Gradually and stealthily the king of the forest drew near, muttering to
himself, as it were, in an undertone. He evidently did not care to
disturb the horses, having set his heart upon the meat which hung on the