sort of nest-egg. Away they go; flowering geraniums and
candelabra-shaped amaryllis are trodden down as though the veriest weeds
on earth. "Cluck, cluck--click, click--_nhlpr-nh_!" Why is the Bushman
so excited? Ah! he knows all about it; the buffalo has turned a little,
and is now making for some old game-pits, with a sharp stake in the
middle of each. Now, what a chance!--both buffalo and horse may be
engulphed--all three perhaps killed! What a glorious finale this would
be! Fancy the jollification of buffalo beef to commence with, and a
second course of horseflesh, while between the mouthfuls a knife might
be driven in spite between the ribs of the broken-necked white man,
whose body would be lying by! What would be a feast of turtle and
venison compared to this? In England you don't know how to live and
feast like a Bushman. Unfortunately, and bad luck for "Cluck-click,"
neither buffalo nor horse has yet broken his neck. There is no one
looking on to see how the horse goes,--no one to give another fifty for
him,--no one to see how he crossed that old watercourse; and yet how
boldly the man rides. He is not riding in this style merely to sell the
animal: he does not look round to see if any of the swells of the field
are watching him, and then for applause, or money in prospect, cram his
horse at a stiff rail, at which his craven heart would not dare even to
look were no man near. No! it must really be that the heart and soul of
this desert rider are in his sport, and that he feels--

"There is rapture to vault on the champing steed.
And bound away with the eagle's speed,
With the death-fraught firelock in his hand,
The only law of the desert land."

A streak of blood on the black hide of the buffalo, and foam from his
mouth, tell a tale that he has not run thus far even without being
distressed in more ways than one. Now they are near the Bushman's box,
who sits like a judge to see them come in. Hi! hi! here they come!
there they go! Bang, bang! the buffalo stumbles; he got the second
barrel in the ribs. The horse begins to reel in his gallop a little,
but, being well held together by his rider, he has at least another mile
still in him; now the hunter rides nearly alongside the bull, and it is
neck and neck. What a change! tables turned! Truly it is so; the
hunter is the hunted. The buffalo, with head low, is charging; the
rider, steering his horse with firm hand, and a watchful eye on