Ernest nodded in reply. He could not speak. “By Jove! where is Roger?” he went on, turning pale as he missed his son for the first time. But at this moment that young gentleman hove in sight, and, recovering from his fright when he saw that the great animal was stone-dead, rushed up with yells of exultation, and, climbing on to the upper tusk, began to point out where he had hit him. Meanwhile Mr. Alston had extracted the story of the adventure from Ernest. “You young rascal,” he said to his son, “come off that tusk. Do you know that if it had not been for Mr. Kershaw here, who courted almost certain death to save you from the results of your own folly, you would be as dead as that elephant and as flat as a biscuit? Come down, sir, and offer up your thanks to Providence and Mr. Kershaw that you have a sound square inch of skin left on your worthless young body!” Roger descended accordingly, considerably crestfallen. “Never you mind, Roger; that was a most rattling good shot of yours at his knee,” said Ernest, who had now got his breath again. “You would not do it again if you fired at elephants for a week.” And so the matter passed off; but afterwards Mr. Alston thanked Ernest with tears in his eyes for saving his son’s life. This was the first elephant they killed, and also the largest. It measured ten feet eleven inches at the shoulder, and the tusks weighed, when dried out, about sixty pounds each. They remained in the elephant country for nearly four months, when the approach of the unhealthy season forced them to leave it—not, however, before they had killed a great quantity of large game of all sorts. It was a most successful hunt, so successful, indeed, that the ivory they brought down paid all the expenses of the trip, and left a handsome surplus over. It was on the occasion of their return to Pretoria that Ernest made the acquaintance of a curious character in a curious way. As soon as they reached the boundaries of the Transvaal, Ernest bought a horse from a Boer, on which he used to ride after the herds of buck which swarmed upon the high veldt. They had none with them, because in the country where they had been shooting no horse would live. One day, as they were travelling slowly along a little before midday, a couple of bull-vilderbeeste galloped across the waggon-track about two hundred yards in front of the oxen. The voorlooper stopped the oxen in order to give Ernest, who was sitting on the waggon-box with a rifle by his side, a steady shot. Ernest fired at the last of the two galloping bulls. The line was good; but he did not make sufficient allowance for the pace at which the bull was travelling, with the result that instead of striking it forwards and killing it, the bullet shattered its flank, and did not stop its career. “Dash it!” said Ernest, when he saw what he had done, “I can’t leave the poor beast like that. Bring me my horse; I will go after him, and finish him.”