"_Maji hapana m'bale, bwana_," observed the gun bearer to the white man.
"Water is not far, master."

The white man merely nodded. These two had been together many years, and
explanations were not necessary between them. He, as well as Simba, had
noticed the gradual convergence of the game trails, the presence of small
grass birds that flushed under their feet, the sing-sing buck behind the
aloes, the increasing numbers of game animals that stared or fled at the
sight and sound of the safari.

Nothing more was said. The way led to the top of one of those low
transverse swells that conceal the middle distance without actually
breaking the surface of the veldt. In the corresponding depression beyond
now could be discerned a wandering slender line of green.

"_Maji huko!_" murmured Simba. "There is the water."

Suddenly he stooped low, uttering a peculiar hissing sound. The white man,
too, dropped to the ground, throwing his rifle forward.

"_Nyama, bwana!_" he whispered fiercely, "_karibu sana!_"

He pointed cautiously over the white man's shoulder. The safari, at the
sight of the two dropping to a crouch, had stopped as though petrified,
and stood waiting in silence.

"We have no meat," Simba reminded his master in Swahili.

The white man eased himself back to a sitting posture, resting his elbows
on his knees, as all sensible good rifle shots do when they have the