"Sh!" he said in a low tone, handing the reins to Guy, and reaching out the Mannlicher, which now stood against the seat behind him. "Follow the line of bush yonder," he continued, pointing with his right hand. "Do you see anything?" "Yes," replied Guy; "I see a big bird. What is it?" "That’s a paauw, my boy," answered his uncle; "our biggest bustard. You must have a try for him." Taking some cartridges from a bandolier that hung at the side of the cart, Mr. Blakeney filled the magazine clip and pushed it into its place. Then he worked a cartridge into the breech. "Now, Guy," he went on, "jump down there, creep up behind that bush, and try for a shot. You know the mechanism. If you miss with the first, have a blaze with your second cartridge. You won’t get nearer than a hundred yards. Take your time, and don’t hurry your shot." Guy slipped down quietly, and, stooping low, crept towards the bush his uncle had pointed out. The paauw still fed quietly along the spruit: it was some two hundred and fifty yards from the cart, and the cunning creature, judging the distance to a nicety, esteemed itself quite secure. But, meanwhile, the eager lad with the Mannlicher was creeping up, the wind was right, and it seemed that he might attain his vantage-ground without the alert bird becoming aware of him. Now he is within forty yards of the bush, now thirty, now ten. He is there. Cautiously peering through the leafy screen, and dropping on to his right knee, he takes steady aim and fires. The report of the Mannlicher was a light one, and its smoke very trifling. The big bird staggered to the shot, half lifted its wings, ran fifteen paces, and then dropped to the veldt dead. A shout of triumph rang out from Mr. Blakeney’s lips. "Bravo! bravo! my boy," he cried in stentorian tones. "You’ve done the trick beautifully." Long before the words were out of his uncle’s mouth, Guy, scarcely able to contain his exultation at this his first success, threw his hat into the air, leaped out of the bush, and ran like a deer up to the dead bustard. He picked it up--it seemed enormously heavy--and held it up in triumph. Then turning he walked swiftly back towards the cart. His uncle met him at the bush, clapped him on the back, and said heartily,-- "Well hit, Guy! A first-rate shot. I can see you don’t want much coaching in the art of rifle-shooting. It isn’t every day we get a paauw." He took the great bird from the lad, and, holding it out, tested its weight. "He’s a beauty," he went on; "fat, and in high condition. Can’t weigh less than thirty pounds. Handsome bird, isn’t he? Look at his crest. That’s the biggest and finest bustard in the world--_kori_ the Bechuanas call him. "Now let us pace the distance," he continued. They paced it from the bush to the spot where the bird had been hit. Just one hundred and five yards it was, at a rough computation.