When the beer was consumed we walked up together to my little house on
which is now called the Berea, the same in which, amongst others, I
received my friends, Curtis and Good, in after days, and there we
dined. Indeed, Charlie Scroope never left that house until we started
on our shooting expedition.

Now I must cut all this story short, since it is only incidentally
that it has to do with the tale I am going to tell. Mr. Scroope was a
rich man and as he offered to pay all the expenses of the expedition
while I was to take all the profit in the shape of ivory or anything
else that might accrue, of course I did not decline his proposal.

Everything went well with us on that trip until its unfortunate end.
We only killed two elephants, but of other game we found plenty. It
was when we were near Delagoa Bay on our return that the accident
happened.

We were out one evening trying to shoot something for our dinner, when
between the trees I caught sight of a small buck. It vanished round a
little promontory of rock which projected from the side of the kloof,
walking quietly, not running in alarm. We followed after it. I was the
first, and had just wriggled round these rocks and perceived the buck
standing about ten paces away (it was a bush-bok), when I heard a
rustle among the bushes on the top of the rock not a dozen feet above
my head, and Charlie Scroope's voice calling:

"Look out, Quatermain! He's coming."

"Who's coming?" I answered in an irritated tone, for the noise had
made the buck run away.