Part 16 (2/2)
”I hope to Heaven he may. I say, d.i.c.k, old friend, I'm more than glad you turned in here to-day, in time to make me put that abominable draft in the fire.”
”Will you walk back with me a little way, Percy?” said the Canon as he was taking his leave, having refused Sir Luke's offer to send him back on wheels.
”Why rather. Wait, I'll just get my bike. I can wheel it along, and ride it back.”
They pa.s.sed down the village street together, nodding here and there to an acquaintance, or acknowledging the salutation of a rustic. The rector of the parish pa.s.sed them on a bicycle, and the two professors of rival creeds exchanged a cordial and friendly greeting, for somehow, no one was anything other than friendly with Canon Lenthall. But it was not until they had left the village behind and had gained the open country that he began to discourse seriously with his younger friend as to the matter of which both were thinking.
”Let me see. How long is it since you saw Hilary?” he began.
”Oh, about half a dozen years--just before he got into that--er--mess.
What a splendid chap he was, Canon. I've sometimes thought Uncle Luke was a bit hard on him that time.”
”You're quite wrong, Percy. Hard is the one thing your uncle could not be. Why, he's the softest hearted man in existence.”
”Yes, I know. But, does he really want me to go out there and hunt up Hilary?”
”I believe so. As a matter of fact, we happened to be discussing that very thing just before you came in. It was a strange coincidence that you should unconsciously have brought the news you did.”
Percival whistled. ”Were you really? Strange indeed. Well, I'm on for the scheme. It doesn't matter if I enter at the Temple now, or in six or eight months' time--and, what an experience it'll be in the mean time.”
They were nearing Pa.s.smore, and the chimneys and spires of the town were growing larger and larger in front of them--and already the haze of smoke was dimming the bright green of the expanse of meadow between.
They had gained the wooden road-bridge, beneath which the sluggish water ran oily between the black piers, and here the Canon paused.
”It will be a great thing if we can bring Hilary back to his uncle, so that they are thoroughly reconciled. But Percy, my boy--remember that so far, for all these years past you have been the first and only one near him. How will you feel when you see another first--and to all appearances of more consequence than yourself, as is natural in the case of one who has long been away. Are you sure of yourself?”
But the young man burst into a free, frank and hearty laugh.
”Great Scot, Canon!” he cried merrily. ”What sort of a bounder are you trying to take me for? There's nothing I'd like so much as to see the dear old chap back again.”
The old priest gazed steadily at him for a moment, and felt greatly relieved. The answer rang so spontaneous, so true.
”Well, I had that to say to you, and have said it. In fact I brought you with me now on purpose to say it. Now, good-bye my boy, and G.o.d bless you.”
CHAPTER THREE.
BAYFIELD'S FARM.
There is a rustling in the cover, faint at first, but drawing nearer.
As it does so, the man with the gun, who has been squatting half concealed by a shrub in one corner of the little glade, picks himself up stealthily, noiselessly, and now widely on the alert. A fine bushbuck ram leaps lightly into the open, and as its large protruding eye lights on this unusual object, its easy, graceful bound becomes a wild rush.
Then the gun speaks. The beautiful animal sinks in his stride and falls, a frantic, kicking heap, carried forward some six or eight yards by the impetus of his pace. Twirling, twisting, now attempting to rise, and almost succeeding, then rolling back, but still fighting desperately for life--the blood welling forth over his black hide where the deadly _loepers_ have penetrated--the stricken buck emits loud raucous bellowings of rage and fear and agony. But the man with the gun knows better than to approach too near, knows well the power of those long, needle-pointed horns, and the tenacity of life contained within the brain beneath them; knows well that a stricken bushbuck ram, with all that life still in him, can become a terribly dangerous and formidable antagonist, and this is a very large and powerful unit of the species.
The crash of the shot reverberates, roaring from the overhanging krantz--dislodging a cloud of spreuws from its rocky ledges. These dart hither and thither, whistling and chattering, their shrill din mingling with the bellowings of the wounded buck. But upon this arises another din and it is that of canine throats. Two great rough-haired dogs leap forth into the glade, following upon the line taken by the buck. Then ensues a desperate game. The stricken animal, summoning all his remaining strength to meet these new foes, staggers to his feet, and, with head lowered and menacing, it seems that no power on earth can stay the foremost of the dogs from receiving the full length of these fourteen-inch horns in his onward rush. These, however, are no puppies, but old, well-seasoned dogs, thoroughly accustomed to bush-hunting.
Wonderfully quick are they in their movements as, just avoiding each deadly thrust, they leap, snapping and snarling, round their quarry-- until one, seeing his chance, seizes the latter just below the haunch in such fas.h.i.+on as promptly to hamstring him. The game antelope is done for now. Weakened, too, by the jets of blood spurting from his wounds, he totters and falls. The fight is over.
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