frequent, and the hot sun dried it so quickly that it 

 was more than I could do to pick it out from the red 

 streaks on the grass and many coloured leaves. So 

 I gave it up and sat down to smoke and wait. 



Half an hour passed, and still no Jock. Then I 

 wandered about whistling and calling for him 

 calling until the sound of my own voice became quite 

 uncanny, the only sound in an immense silence. 

 Two hours passed in useless calling and listening, 

 searching and waiting, and then I gave it up altogether 

 and made back for the waggons, trying to hope against 

 my real conviction that Jock had struck the road some- 

 where and had followed it to the outspan, instead 

 of coming back on his own trail through the bush 

 to me. 



But there was no Jock at the waggons ; and my heart 

 sank, although I was not surprised. It was nearly 

 four hours since he had disappeared, and it was as 

 sure as anything could be that something extra- 

 ordinary must have happened or he would have come 

 back to me long before this. No one at the waggons 

 had seen him since we started out together ; and 

 there was nothing to be done but to wait and see what 

 would happen. It was perfectly useless to look for 

 him : if alive and well, he was better able to find 

 his way than the best tracker that ever lived ; if dead 

 or injured and unable to move, there was not one 

 chance in a million of finding him. 



There was only one kaffir whom Jock would take 

 any notice of or would allow to touch him a great 

 big Zulu named Jim Makokel'. Jim was one of the 

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