s without a trouble in the world as he
turned the hissing steak in the pan. Two black gins in brief garments--a
loin cloth and a villainously dirty pyjama-jacket each--were sitting
near him, languidly killing the mosquitoes which settled on their bare
legs. These were Maggie and Lucy, but they had degenerated with their
surroundings. Tommy Prince was oiling a carbine, and one of the shooters
was washing his face at a basin formed by scratching a small hole in the
ground and pressing a square of canvas into the depression.

The Chinese skinner was sitting on a log, rubbing a huge butcher's knife
on a sharpening stone. Away up the plain the horses, about thirty or
forty in number, were slowly trooping into camp, hunted by a couple
of blackfellows, naked except for little grass armlets worn above the
elbow, and sticks stuck through their noses. When the horses reached the
camp they formed a squadron under the shade of some trees, and pushed
and shoved and circled about, trying to keep the flies off themselves
and each other.

Hugh walked over to Tommy Prince at his rifle-oiling, and watched him
for a while. That worthy, who was evidently a true sportsman at heart,
was liberally baptising with Rangoon oil an old and much rusted Martini
carbine, whose ejector refused to work. Every now and then, when he
thought he had got it ship-shape, Tommy would put in a fresh cartridge,
hold the carbine tightly to his shoulder, shut his eyes, and fire
it into space. The rusty old weapon kicked frightfully, after each
discharge the ejector jammed, and Tommy ruefully poked the exploded
cartridge out with a rod and poured on more oil.

"Blast the carbine!" said Tommy. "It kicks upwards like; it's kicking my
nose all skewwhiff."

"Don't put it to your shoulder, you fool," said one of the shooters;
"it'll kick your head off. Hold it out in one hand."

"Then it'll kick my arm off," said Tommy.

"No, it won't; you won t feel it at all," said the shooter. "Your arm
will give to the recoil. Blaze away!"

"What are you up to with the carbine?" said Hugh.

"I'm going to have a blaze at some of these 'ere buff'loes," said Tommy
gaily. "Bill's lent me a horse. They's got a rifle for you, and one
for the old man. "We'll give them buff'loes hell to-day. Five
rifles--they'll think the French is after them." "Well, but I want
to get back," said Hugh. "We mustn't waste any time. What about the
store-keeper's horses?"

"Ho! it'd never do to take