That was the last that was seen of them. John and the riflemen held the wooded clump while the safari, taking the donkeys, pressed on to the south. Then, when all danger of pursuit seemed at an end, he followed in its track and overtook it within two hours. No pursuers being in sight, he thought it safe to make a long halt for rest and food, both badly needed by the whole party, and especially by Ferrier and his men. Ferrier blessed John’s forethought in bringing a quantity of food on the donkeys. It was only sufficient for one meal, and that not a very good one; but a little is a feast to men who are famishing, and there was great contentment among the negroes as they baked little millet cakes at their fires. When the march was resumed, John shot a wart-hog during the afternoon, which he allowed the men to cook and eat there and then. They camped for the rest of the day, building a thorn zariba and keeping a careful watch all night. Early in the morning they went on again, and passing through the friendly village and across the river, they came at midday to the farm. John at once sent Ferrier’s headman towards Fort Hall to say that there was no longer any need of help. Then he committed the negroes to the care of Lulu, doctored Coja’s wounded shoulder as well as he could, and asked Said Mohammed to use all his skill in preparing dinner for his guest. "Your esteemed order shall be punctually attended to," said the Bengali. "The honourable gentleman shall smack his lips and feel jolly well bucked up. I will do him tiptop." CHAPTER THE TENTH--Driving Sheep to Market "I say, Halliday, you’re in clover here," said Ferrier, as the two sat smoking in the bungalow after Said Mohammed had made their hearts glad with a capital dinner. "My grandfather made his pile ranching in Manitoba, and you’ll do the same here." John laughed. "We’re not paying our way at present," he said, "and I know my father grudged the money for his passage home again so soon. He’ll grudge it still more now that his journey has turned out useless, and there are doctors’ bills to pay in the bargain." The two young men had exchanged confidences during the latter part of their march to the farm. Charles Ferrier’s father had been called to the Canadian bar, but he had never practised, his fortune being sufficient to keep him and his family in something more than comfort, and to pay for the sporting expeditions which were his real interest in life. Charles, who was twenty years old, had just come down from the McGill university, and his father had brought him to East Africa to "give him a run," as he put it, before he settled down to work. "And his ambition for me was that I should enter the Canadian legislature," said he, with a wry face. "It’s not work much after my mind; I’d prefer ranching like my grandfather. Poor father! D’you think I ought to stick to his notion now that he’s gone?"