CHAPTER X. 

 AN UNLUCKY DAY. 



I QUITTED our mountain valley one morning, 

 attended by Jackson, an English mason, who 

 was staying for some time at the farmstead 

 building cattle kraals, and generally making himself 

 useful upon the estate. A handy man of this sort, 

 especially if he be a blacksmith, and sober and 

 diligent to boot, may reckon upon constant and 

 lucrative employment in South Africa. Jackson was 

 a good enough sort of man, and was desperately 

 keen for a day's shooting now and then, an instinct 

 possibly inherited from some remote poaching 

 ancestor in the Old Country, or, still more probably, 

 naturally implanted in his breast in common with so 

 many denizens of these islands. But Jackson had 

 been out of health for some time from fever and 

 rheumatism, and was not in the best condition for a 

 long tramp over rough mountain veldt. However, 

 the man begged so hard that I consented, and 

 we set out at eight o'clock in the morning, he 

 armed with our " mixed " weapon carrying shot and 

 bullet, while I took with me my favourite " George 

 Daw" '450 sporting rifle. Varying our usual 

 hunting ground, we made up the steep mountain 

 directly at the back of the farmhouse, and after a 

 hard scramble of five-and-twenty minutes or so, 

 reached the crest. Here we took a survey of the 

 country a survey embracing in its sweep nothing 



