Oscar had often told himself that the Dutchmen who first settled in Africa must have had a keen sense of the fitness of things when they named these bushes "wait-a-bits." They were as full of thorns as a rosebush. The thorns were two or three inches in length, and the ends were turned down into little hooks that were both sharp and strong. They were continually pulling off his hat or catching in his clothing, and then he was obliged to "wait a bit" before he could extricate himself from their grasp. How the Kaffir managed it, with his bare feet and no clothes at all on worth speaking of, was a mystery; but he got through somehow, and he did not make half as much fuss about it as Oscar did.

There was one thing in their favor, however—these bushes did not extend far into the grove. They grew only in the outskirts of it, and after they had been passed the way was comparatively clear.

This particular thicket was not more than twenty yards wide, but it took them almost half an hour to get through it.

The honey-bird kept them company all the time, hovering over their heads and chirping loudly, as if he were trying, in his bird's way, to encourage them.

Just as they pushed the last bush away, and stepped out into the little open space on the other side of the thicket, four of the dogs appeared.

It was well for at least one of the hunters that they did so, for their keen sense of smell enabled them to detect the presence of something that Oscar did not expect to find there.

"I think we have reached the spot, Thompson," said Oscar, pointing to a tree in which their little guide was hopping about. The bird seemed to be excited now, for his movements were quick and nervous, and he showed no disposition to go any further. "The honey must be in that tree. You go around that way, and see if you can find a hole in it, and I'll go this way."

The hunters moved off in different directions, but had not made more than half a dozen steps when the dogs became aware that there was something in the bushes that grew around the foot of the tree in question.

The thicket was too small to conceal any very large animal, and Oscar's first thought was that the dogs had winded a snake, probably a poisonous mamba—a species that frequents the timber, and is not often found on the open plain. Its bite is deadly, and the natives affirm that it will chase a man for the purpose of biting him.

"I don't know but McCann was right, after all," said Oscar as he backed away from the thicket. "If there is a snake in there I'll spoil your head for you, my treacherous friend, so that you'll not fool anybody else as you have fooled me, and I'll make war on your kind so long as I stay in Africa. Thompson, look around and see if you can find a stick. Our chances for hitting so small an object as a snake with a rifle-ball are rather—— Eh? Do you see him?"

Just then the dogs rushed at the thicket, barking loudly, and the Kaffir, who had been closely examining the bushes, raised his rifle with a quick movement, and fired at something he saw there.

The next moment, with every hair on his body sticking toward his head, his mouth wide open, showing a frightful array of teeth, his eyes flashing with fury, and the blood trickling from a wound in his side, out bounded a magnificent leopard.

The dogs scattered right and left, but one of them was not quick enough in his movements to escape instant death. He was knocked flat by a blow from the paw of the enraged animal, which, after making two or three high short springs, growling savagely all the while, halted and faced about, as if he had made up his mind to run no further.

Laying his chin down between his fore paws, and waving his tail from side to side, as a cat does when she is watching a mouse, the fierce animal fastened his eyes upon Oscar, whom he seemed to have singled out as a victim; but instead of creeping toward him he writhed backward, as if he were measuring off the distance he intended to clear when he made his spring.

Then came the critical moment. The animal drew his cat-like ears flat down against his head, and at the same instant two ready fingers pressed the triggers. The reports sounded like one, and the leopard, arrested in his leap before he had fairly left the ground, rolled over on his side, powerless for mischief.

Oscar's rifle spoke again a few seconds later, and the honey-bird came fluttering down from his perch. His head was spoiled, sure enough, for it was shot from his body.

"He'll never fool any more hunters," said Oscar as he walked up to examine the leopard after reloading both barrels of his rifle. "I say, Thompson, I think you have earned a musket by this day's work. You put two balls into him very cleverly. If this is the way you are going to back me up when I get into trouble I shall be your debtor for ten pounds when we get back to Maritzburg. We don't want any honey, do we? This fellow's mate may be loafing about in some of these thickets, and the best thing we can do is to get out of here."

It was hard work to carry their prize through those thorn bushes. The leopard was not very heavy at the start,—he did not begin to be as large as either of the hyenas Oscar had secured the day before,—but he grew heavy before they got him out to the plain.

When they reached the edge of the grove Oscar was glad to sit down and rest, while the Kaffir went in pursuit of the horses, which had been alarmed by the noise of the fight, and would no doubt have made the best of their way back to the wagon if they had not hobbled themselves by putting their feet through their bridle-reins.

No amount of coaxing could induce Little Gray to consent to carry the leopard to camp, and the Kaffir's horse objected so strenuously to having anything at all to do with the matter that Oscar was obliged to lash his prize fast to the saddle, while the Kaffir clung to his nag with both hands to keep him from running away.

When this had been done Oscar mounted Little Gray and turned him toward the wagon; but before he reached it he met with two surprises. The first came about in this way:

While he was riding along, with his gaze fastened thoughtfully on the ground, and wondering how many narrow escapes an African hunter could have before some wild beast succeeded in getting the better of him, his eye chanced to fall upon something that instantly arrested his attention.

In Eaton he had probably walked over such objects a dozen times in a day, and never noticed them at all; but they were so uncommon in the wilds of Africa that the sight of this one interested him at once—so much so that he swung himself from his horse and picked it up.

It proved to be a piece of brown envelope. Inside of it was a strip of white paper, at which he gazed in the greatest amazement. It was part of the map that his friend Mr. Lawrence had drawn for him. Scarcely able to credit the evidence of his eyes, Oscar put the paper into his pocket and climbed back into his saddle.

"How, in the name of all that's mysterious and bewildering, did that map get scattered about in this way?" he kept saying to himself, and every time he asked the question he took the paper out of his pocket and looked at it again. "It certainly is my map—or all there is left of it. I would know it if I had picked it up in the streets of London; but if I had found it there I could not be more surprised than I am to find it here. I am sure that I put it in the third pocket on the right-hand side of the tent, and how in the world—— I wonder if McCann——"

Oscar took off his hat and dug his fingers into his head to stir up his ideas. That name suggested something to him, and brought back to his memory a good many little incidents that had happened since he left Zurnst—all trivial enough in themselves, but which when taken together made up a weight of evidence against the after-rider (an after-rider only in name) that was overwhelming.

"I ought to have been on the lookout for some such thing as this," thought Oscar, who, beyond a doubt, would have come to an open rupture with McCann if the latter had been near him at that moment. "He has done everything he could to discourage me. He has put the brakes on the wagon when we were going up hill in order to make the oxen part the trek-tow; he has tried to lead me out of my course, and make me lose my way on the plain, so that he could turn me back to Zurnst; he has told the most dreadful stories of the dangers I was running into, and tried over and over again to make me promise that I would secure what specimens I could here, and then go back; and, as a last resort, he has destroyed my map. It must have been McCann, for there is no one else about the wagon who knows the value of that piece of paper."

Oscar felt savage enough during the rest of the ride, and consequently he was just in the right humor to act—and to act resolutely—in an emergency that presently arose.

While he was thinking about McCann, and wondering if there were any way in which he could satisfy himself of the man's guilt before he openly charged him with destroying the map, an exclamation from his after-rider aroused him.

He looked up and found that he was in plain view of the fountain. The oxen were gathered on the bank, and on the opposite side of them were the driver and fore-loper, who were shouting and cracking their whips to turn the cattle away from the fountain.

On the opposite bank of the water-course were four wagons, and a drove of strange oxen were just coming down to the fountain to drink.

"Visitors!" cried Oscar, shaking his bridle-rein and putting his horse into a gallop. "I hope they are English or Scotch; but even if they are Dutchmen, and can't understand a word I say, I shall give them a hearty welcome. I didn't know before that I was so lonely."

In a few moments Oscar met his oxen, which had been turned about with their heads toward the plain, and also his driver, who hurried up to him with a face full of news.

"Hi, baas!" he exclaimed. "Boer man shoot ox."

"What?" shouted Oscar.

"Yaas; shoot dead," replied the Hottentot, who was all excitement. "Shoot all dead. No let drink water."

Greatly bewildered, Oscar looked around for McCann, and seeing him following after the herd, galloped around to meet him.

"What's the trouble here?" he asked. "To whom do those wagons belong?"

"The owners are Dutch transport-riders, who are on their way to the Kalahari Desert—Sechelle's country, you know—to trade for feathers and ivory," answered McCann. "They arrived here about half an hour ago."

"What does Ferguson mean by saying that they will not let my oxen drink?" continued Oscar.

"He means that the Boers want all the water for their own cattle, and swear that they will shoot any strange ox or horse that comes near the fountain," replied McCann. "Knowing that they are not the kind of people who make idle threats, I thought it best to keep the stock away from the water until you came."

Oscar was almost ready to boil over with rage. He had never heard of such a piece of impudence before in all his life.