100 WILD BOGY-MEN. 
mother might be; the sudden snort of an 
alarmed bull gnu; the whistling of the wings 
of a flock of sand-grouse whirring overhead ; 
the high-pitched, mournful wailing of a prowl- 
ing jackal; and then, with startling sudden- 
ness, the hollow, reverberating, thunderous, 
coughing grunts of a lion. 
A swish. Another swish closer in. A 
pause. The least hint at a rustle, and— 
silence. 
The impala fawn lay as still as the very 
earth, head and body flat. He might have 
been dead. Only his eyes lived. Those beauti- 
ful, clear pools of gentleness were wide open, 
watching, and the big ears cocked forward, 
listening. 
A pause followed ; then a yellowish, black- 
spotted form slid forward, stopped, and sat 
down. It was only a serval kitten, a beast 
like a leggy, thin wild-cat. 
But the fawn never saw the serval kitten’s 
mother. She, silent as a smoke-puff, a yellow 
something, mostly eyes, was drifting up 
behind, following upwind the smell of the 
impala fawn that lay too still for her to see. 
Then she did see him. She saw his ears, 
rather, as they flicked nervously to catch the 
sounds before and behind, and that was enough 
for her. 
