"You’re quite right," added Mr. Blakeney. "They don’t half appreciate the blessings of life at home. You want to rough it out here a bit to understand what English comfort and English luxury really mean. Why, we had a man staying with us a year back, looking at stock, who got lost in the veldt out here for three days, two of which he passed without a drop of water. Ultimately we tracked him to a native kraal on the Molopo, thirty miles away. In this kind of country--in fact all through Bechuanaland, on the Kalahari side--you’ve got to watch it, or you may easily get lost, and perhaps die of thirst and starvation. Now, let’s be off home for breakfast. We have an hour and a half’s ride still before us." Meanwhile, Tom Blakeney had been examining his cousin’s hunting trophy. "By Jove, Guy," he exclaimed, "you’ve got a first-rate head! That’s a real good old bull hartebeest; you seldom see finer horns." "Yes, Tom," rejoined his cousin, "I thought it was a good head; and if I had had to go without water another twenty-four hours, I should have brought it back with me. It’s my first hunting trophy, and I shall always be proud of it." "You’ll do, Guy!" exclaimed his uncle, as they rode homewards. "I like to see a fellow keen; and I’m sure you will shoot many a head of big game before you’ve finished. Some day we’ll go into the real hunting veldt, where you can prove your mettle against more formidable beasts." A week or two later, Tom and Guy were shooting redwing partridges and koorhaan in a pretty piece of country some miles from the homestead. They had quitted the banks of a periodical stream, where they had bagged half a dozen brace of redwings and a steinbuck, and were now in search of black and white koorhaan and Coqui partridges on a wide piece of grassy plain which ran up to a distant line of kopjes. Juno, the pointer, stood; and Tom, slipping quietly from his saddle, walked cautiously forward, his gun at the ready. Still the staunch dog stood, pointing stiffly at something in front of her. Tom advanced yet farther, and then, without a cry and very noiselessly, there rose from the long grass a single bird, with long greenish legs and a big head. It was an easy shot, and Tom fired and brought it down. "A dikkop," he cried, as he ran forward and picked up the bird. Guy came up and inspected the game, which was of a species he had not yet seen in Bechuanaland. "Why, it’s the same as our Norfolk plover, or thick-knee," he said. "Father shot one years ago in Suffolk, and had it stuffed. I can tell it by its big staring eyes." "Yes, it’s nearly the same bird," rejoined his cousin. "I believe there’s some little difference in the species, here we call it by the Dutch name dikkop, or thickhead. They’re rattling good eating, and we’ll stick it in the bag." Smoothing the bird’s feathers, and placing it in the wallet slung behind his saddle, they went on.