"No, I don’t suppose you ever have," said Mr. Blakeney. "Giraffe marrow-bone is the king of veldt fare. There’s nothing to equal it. But we must cry enough. It’s rich food, and I’ve known men in the low country bring on a fresh attack of fever simply from over-indulging themselves in too much of this good thing." They sat after supper near the blazing fire--the boys writing up their diaries by its cheerful light, Mr. Blakeney smoking his pipe and skinning a beautiful crimson-breasted shrike which he had shot that afternoon in some thorn bush along the river. He and the boys had already begun a collection of birds, which they meant to take home with them. There was no moon, but through the dark, velvety pall of the night-sky myriads of stars pricked forth in an array of marvellous brilliancy. Down the river there came the curious wailing titter of a jackal, then another. Not long after, a low moaning roar was heard from the same quarter. This was answered by another roar nearer the camp. "Lions!" exclaimed Mr. Blakeney. "Seleti, put more wood on the fires. Do you, Mangwalaan, light another there, beyond the leading span of oxen. We shall have to look out." The Bechuana boys piled up the firewood, and soon had yet another blaze going. Just then Poeskop came up to his masters. "I say, Poeskop," said Guy, who had finished his diary of the day’s doings, "is it true that the jackal is the lion’s provider, and goes ahead for him and smells out his food, and lets his master know of it?" The Bushman squatted down near the fire, and smiled a broad smile that wrinkled up his whole face and nearly concealed his eyes. "Nay, my baas," he said, "I don’t think that. But the lion knows from the jackal’s cry when he winds food, and comes after him." Now, from the winding river, not more than a quarter of a mile away, there rose the loud roar of a single lion, then another, and then yet another across the river. Then the three roared in unison, creating a volume of sound that was not only strangely majestic and awe-inspiring, but seemed to make the whole air vibrate and tremble. "Ah!" said Poeskop quietly, "they won’t hurt us to-night. When they roar like that, lions have full stomachs, and are not hungry. It is only when they purr and growl, or, still worse, when they are silent, that you must look out for them." "They’ve got our wind, Poeskop," added Mr. Blakeney, "and they’re telling one another of the fact." "Ja, baas," said the Bushman. "They smell meat and oxen; but they won’t touch us to-night--at least, I don’t think so. There’s the old manikin, the father lion--that was the first roar; then his wife; and then a young, nearly full-grown lion, their son." "How on earth do you know that, Poeskop?" exclaimed Tom.