Maiwa’s Revenge or The War of the Little Hand by H. Rider Haggard Contents PREFACE CHAPTER I. GOBO STRIKES CHAPTER II. A MORNING’S SPORT CHAPTER III. THE FIRST ROUND CHAPTER IV. THE LAST ROUND CHAPTER V. THE MESSAGE OF MAIWA CHAPTER VI. THE PLAN OF CAMPAIGN CHAPTER VII. THE ATTACK CHAPTER VIII. MAIWA IS AVENGED PREFACE It may be well to state that the incident of the “Thing that bites” recorded in this tale is not an effort of the imagination. On the contrary, it is “plagiarized.” Mandara, a well-known chief on the east coast of Africa, has such an article, _and uses it_. In the same way the wicked conduct attributed to Wambe is not without a precedent. T’Chaka, the Zulu Napoleon, never allowed a child of his to live. Indeed he went further, for on discovering that his mother, Unandi, was bringing up one of his sons in secret, like Nero he killed her, and with his own hand. MAIWA’S REVENGE CHAPTER I. GOBO STRIKES One day—it was about a week after Allan Quatermain told me his story of the “Three Lions,” and of the moving death of Jim-Jim—he and I were walking home together on the termination of a day’s shooting. He owned about two thousand acres of shooting round the place he had bought in Yorkshire, over a hundred of which were wood. It was the second year of his occupation of the estate, and already he had reared a very fair head of pheasants, for he was an all-round sportsman, and as fond of shooting with a shot-gun as with an eight-bore rifle. We were three guns that day, Sir Henry Curtis, Old Quatermain, and myself; but Sir Henry was obliged to leave in the middle of the afternoon in order to meet his agent, and inspect an outlying farm where a new shed was wanted. However, he was coming back to dinner, and going to bring Captain Good with him, for Brayley Hall was not more than two miles from the Grange. We had met with very fair sport, considering that we were only going through outlying cover for cocks. I think that we had killed twenty-seven, a woodcock and a leash of partridges which we secured out of a driven covey. On our way home there lay a long narrow spinney, which was a very favourite “lie” for woodcocks, and generally held a pheasant or two as well. “Well, what do you say?” said old Quatermain, “shall we beat through this for a finish?” I assented, and he called to the keeper who was following with a little knot of beaters, and told him to beat the spinney. “Very well, sir,” answered the man, “but it’s getting wonderful dark, and the wind’s rising a gale. It will take you all your time to hit a woodcock if the spinney holds one.” “You show us the woodcocks, Jeffries,” answered Quatermain quickly, for he never liked being crossed in anything to do with sport, “and we will look after shooting them.”