The lions have been quiet lately, since Said Mohammed saved my life; but as the mistris had next to nothing to do and were getting too fat, I have set them to build a stronger boma, of stout poles fastened together with transverse logs. That ought to keep the beasts out; at any rate it will give the place more the look of a respectable stockyard. I wish you’d ship a few merinos for cross-breeding. Our half-breeds aren’t much good for wool. The May lambs were born with long coarse hair, though they grew a poor sort of wool at three months. Wasama doesn’t like the woolled sheep; he says they’re not like the sheep of his country, and persists in believing that the first woolled beasts were the offspring of lions and hyenas. What ignorance! as old Martha used to say. Out shooting the other day we saw a herd of zebras, and Ferrier has got a mad idea of catching some of the foals and taming them. We may try it if we come across them again, so don’t be surprised if you see us riding to meet you on striped chargers. You, I expect, will be wearing striped trousers, light gloves, and a new silk topper. The failed B.A. is a perpetual joy. His latest. Ferrier found a hair in his soup the other night. "Accept humble apologies, sir," says Said Mohammed, as he took it away. "In such circs. I can best cheer you up by reminding you of a verse of the little but divine Alexander Pope: ’And beauty draws us with a single hair.’" That may appeal to you, dad. I hope your leg is all right, and you’re enjoying yourself. _I’ve_ got to work for my living. One day the younger Masai, who had taken a flock of sheep out to graze at the extreme west of the estate, came rushing in breathless and reported with intense excitement that the sheep had been driven off by some men who had pounced suddenly out of the bush. One was a Swahili, the rest negroes. They had carried him along with them for some distance and then let him go. "How many were they?" asked John. "Eight," replied the boy. "One had a gun." "Which way did they go?" The boy pointed to the west. "We can tackle eight, Charley. Coja, saddle up the two best donkeys and bring us our rifles. This is something new, Charley. I wonder if it’s our friend Juma again?" "Rum thing, their letting the boy go, don’t you think?" said Ferrier. "They must know we’ll be after them, especially if the Swahili is Juma; it’s not the first time you’ve chased him." "He reckons on getting away, or on our not finding the trail, I suppose. We’ll take Bill with us." But when, riding their donkeys hard, they came to the little hut in the wood, they found that the Wanderobbo was not there. "He’s gone for honey, I suppose," said John. "Never mind; we oughtn’t to find it difficult to track sheep."