"A good shot, Guy," repeated his uncle. "And you kept your head and didn’t hurry it. Well, we shall dine excellently. Your aunt and cousins will be as pleased as Punch to see that paauw; it’s by far the best eating of any game-bird in Africa." They reached the cart again. Peetsi, with beaming face, exclaimed in smooth Bechuana at the kori, and fastened the great bird up at the back of the cart, under the shade of the hood. Then they resumed their journey. Half an hour farther on, Mr. Blakeney got down from the cart, shot-gun in hand this time. He had noticed a koorhaan, one of the lesser bustards, go down at a certain spot in the veldt on the left-hand side of the road. In approaching the place where the bird lay concealed, he executed a circling movement. Smaller and smaller became the circle, and then, suddenly, without a cry of warning, a biggish bird flushed from the long grass and flew off. In an instant the sportsman’s gun was at his shoulder. Then came the crisp report of a Schultz cartridge, and the bird instantly fell to the shot. Mr. Blakeney walked forward to pick it up. As he did so a second bird, the hen, rose almost from under his feet. Giving her twenty-five yards law, again the gunner pulled the trigger, and the second game-bird hit the earth. It was a pretty scene--the wide yellow plain; the gunner standing knee deep in grass; the stricken bird, outlined clear against the hot sky. Giving the reins to Peetsi once more, Guy sprang out of the cart and ran to meet his uncle. "Well, that was a pretty bit of shooting, uncle!" he cried joyfully. "I’m glad I saw it. I shall know what to do when I see a koorhaan go down and squat as that one did." "That’s a blue-necked koorhaan," answered his uncle; "one of our most beautiful bustards. Look at its lovely colouring and plumage--the bright rufous back, marked with black; the bluish tinge on the neck; and the tints, rufous, ash-colour, white and black, of the head and neck. And how splendidly the black wing feathers and the white underparts contrast with the rest of the plumage." Guy took the two birds, which were each about the size of a blackcock, and walked with his uncle back to the cart. They drove on now, with a couple more outspans to rest the horses, until at length, turning a corner of some bush, Mr. Blakeney suddenly pointed with his whip and said, "There’s Bamborough!" Guy looked, and saw at the top of a gentle slope, which rose above a well-bushed river valley, a long, low, square-built house, having a raised veranda, or stoep as it is called in South Africa, running all round it. In a mile they had crossed the dry river-bed, ascended the slope, and driven up to the place. It was just upon two o’clock. Mrs. Blakeney, a pleasant, comely-looking matron, came out of the house, and greeted her nephew so soon as he descended. She had not seen him since he was a small child.