no doubt prowling about like a human hyæna to see what he could steal.

"'Is that you, 'unter Quatermain?' he said.

"'Yes, it's I, Mr. Tom,' I answered, politely.

"'And what might all that there yelling be?' he asked. 'I was walking
along, a-taking of the evening air and a-thinking on the stars, when I
'ears 'owl after 'owl.'

"'Well, Mr. Tom,' I answered, 'that is not to be wondered at, seeing
that like yourself they are nocturnal birds.'

"''Owl after 'owl!' he repeated sternly, taking no notice of my
interpretation, 'and I stops and says, "That's murder," and I listens
again and thinks, "No, it ain't; that 'owl is the 'owl of hexultation;
some one's been and got his fingers into a gummy yeller pot, I'll
swear, and gone off 'is 'ead in the sucking of them." Now, 'unter
Quatermain, is I right? is it nuggets? Oh, lor!' and he smacked his
lips audibly--'great big yellow boys--is it them that you have just
been and tumbled across?'

"'No,' I said boldly, 'it isn't'--the cruel gleam in his black eyes
altogether overcoming my aversion to untruth, for I knew that if once
he found out what it was that I was sitting on--and by the way I have
heard of rolling in gold being spoken of as a pleasant process, but I
certainly do not recommend anybody who values comfort to try sitting
on it--I should run a very good chance of being 'handspiked' before
the night was over.