272 A Breath from the Veldt 



One of the brothers, nearly dead with fever, was lying under his waggon in 

 a complete state of collapse, and I did all I could for him, but whether he 

 recovered or not I never heard. They had been shooting hippopotami and 

 prospecting as well. On the Silitsi and the Sabi they had killed six hippos, 

 and had seen many elands in that country, but had been disappointed in the 

 character of the country from a mineral and farming point of view. They 

 seemed very good fellows, yet evidently regarded me with distrust, thinking I 

 was a spy from the Chartered Company who wished to get them into trouble 

 for shooting hippos, as these animals are preserved. 



Provisions were now getting low, and as there was so little game about, we 

 determined to return to the Nuanetsi, striking the river at the edge of the 

 Flybelt, some sixty miles below our standing camp, and working up stream 

 again, our hope being to find the big herd of buffaloes in the " fly " south of 

 Matexe Mountain, and to get some further sport at these animals as well as 

 waterbuck. 



The Randsbergs preceded us, and though we had no little trouble in getting 

 our miserable span along, in three days we struck the big river again. On the 

 way I met Mr. G. H. M. Banks and his party coming out to hunt. A jolly, 

 cheery specimen of an Englishman was he, and most kind and liberal in his 

 oifers of any necessaries I required. We sat down on the Veldt and had a good 

 talk together, for I had had no home news for some months, and was right 

 glad to meet with a friend from the old country. Mr. Banks eventually went 

 on to the Malala fountain, where he had good sport when the game moved out 

 of the " fly " in August. He was fortunate enough to get two lions, and several 

 elands and sables there. 



The character of the Nuanetsi where we struck it again was much the same 

 as at our old camp, but perhaps even more beautiful, as we were now (20th 

 July) under a fine hill known as Matexe Mountain. The spoor of game was 

 plentiful and fresh, and the old man and I cherished great hope of finding the 

 buffaloes on our first day, as none of the other hunters dare go into the " fly " 

 with their valuable horses. Whilst sitting at breakfast a cock ostrich roared 

 at no very great distance, so much like a lion that I can quite understand 

 Livingstone's comparison between the two voices. 



Those of my readers who are naturalists may be interested in the following 

 description of the relative sounds which I endeavoured to write down phonetic- 

 ally on the spot : — 



