Although they were now fairly in the land of big game, it was not part of Mr. Blakeney’s design to waste time by the way. Each day the wagon was to trek steadily on under the guidance of Poeskop towards the appointed goal, that mysterious kloof of gold of which they often talked as they sat together round the camp fire. The wagon moved off after breakfast, therefore, while Mr. Blakeney and the two boys, with Poeskop--who had meanwhile set the course for the day--as after-rider, rode off into the veldt to the right front. They could see clumps of game grazing ahead of them, about a mile away in the distance, and towards these they took their way. Crossing the river which intersected the plain, and which at this the dry season of the year held only a few pools of water here and there in its sandy bed, the hunters rode on quietly till they came within half a mile of the nearest troop. Mr. Blakeney took out his field-glass from its case--this he carried slung over his shoulder--and surveyed the prospect before them. "That nearest troop, now getting fidgety," he said, "are tsesseby. It’s no use running them across this big flat. They’re the fleetest of all the antelopes, and stay for ever. Yonder are ostriches and Burchell’s zebra. Tom and I will have a try at those. Do you, Guy, take Poeskop, and ride quietly for the big troop of blue wildebeest on the right. You’ll have to ride hard, if they begin to run before you get within shot. But they may pull up when they get over the dip yonder, and give you a chance. Now then, Tom, away we go."