buck will not kill once in twenty shots, as an infinitesimal difference
in elevation, or the slightest error in judging distance--in itself
no easy art on those great plains--will spoil his aim. A Boer almost
invariably gets immediately behind a herd of running buck, and fires
at one about half-way down the line. Consequently if his elevation is a
little wrong, or if he has misjudged his sighting, the odds are that he
will hit one either in front of or behind the particular animal fired
at. All that is necessary is that the line of fire should be good. This
John soon learnt, and when he had mastered the fact he became as good a
game shot as the majority of Boers, but it being his first attempt, much
to his vexation, he did not particularly distinguish himself that day,
with the result that his friends the Dutchmen went home firmly convinced
that the English _rooibaatje_ shot as indifferently as he lied.

Jumping into the cart again, and leaving the dead blesbuck to look after
itself for the present--not a very safe thing to do in a country where
there are so many vultures--John, or rather Jantje, put the horses into
a gallop, and away they went at full tear. It was a most exciting mode
of progression, bumping along furiously with a loaded rifle in his hands
over a plain on which antheaps as large as an armchair were scattered
like burnt almonds on a cake. Then there were the antbear holes to
reckon with, and the little swamps in the hollows, and other agreeable
surprises. But the rush and exhilaration of the thing were too great to
allow him much time to think of his neck, so away they flew, hanging on
to the cart as best they could, and trusting to Providence to save them
from complete disaster. Now they were bounding over an antheap, now one
of the horses was on his nose, but somehow they always escaped the
last dire catastrophe, thanks chiefly to the little Hottentot's skilful
driving.