When they started next morning, Tom looked at the German’s gunbearer with a good deal more attention than he had shown previously. It was strange that this humble negro had once been a chief. Mirambo was a well-built man past middle life, quick in his movements, and with large eyes of piercing brilliance. With him was a youth whom even a white man, not easily able to distinguish one negro from another, could hardly fail to recognise as his son. Reinecke gave them their instructions in their own tongue, and with a bullying manner that Tom secretly resented. They received them silently, with an utter lack of expression, displaying none of the interest or alacrity which an English gamekeeper would have shown in similar circumstances. The party of four set off, the negroes leading. Their destination was one of the rare streams that traverse this part of the Plateau, and make their way in devious course and with many cascades to the great lake below. The morning was still young. By starting early, Reinecke had explained, they would make as large a bag as the men could carry before the midday heat became oppressive, and after a brief rest could stroll leisurely back to a late lunch. Tom reflected that this attitude evinced no great enthusiasm for sport, and concluded that Reinecke was really rather a good fellow in taking so much trouble for the sake of a guest. It was not until they were well in the forest that Mirambo showed any animation. The instincts of the old hunter awoke. His keen eyes moved restlessly, alert to mark the spoor of beasts in the woods and on the open park-like spaces dotted with acacias, euphorbias, and the wild thick bushes known as scrub. At one spot he became excited, pointing to fresh marks in the soft soil. "The tracks of a wart-hog," Reinecke explained. "The beast evidently went to his hole not long ago." "I’ve never seen one," said Tom. "Couldn’t we track him and have a shot?" "We couldn’t carry him home. We’re out for birds. Still, I daresay the niggers could dispose of him. You can try your hand if you like." To Tom’s surprise, the negroes, instead of following the tracks in the direction in which the animal had apparently gone, went in the opposite direction. "They’re going away from him," he said. "No, no," said Reinecke with a smile. "Speak low--or better not at all: he’s close at hand."