We had been out perhaps an hour, and by unceasing watchfulness I had learnt many things: they were about as well learnt and as useful as a sentence in a foreign tongue got off by heart; but to me they seemed the essentials and the fundamentals of hunting. I was feeling very pleased with myself and confident of the result; the stumbling over stones and stumps had ceased; and there was no more catching in thorns, crunching on bare gritty places, clinking on rocks, or crackling of dry twigs; and as we moved on in silence the visions of koodoo and other big game became very real. There was nothing to hinder them: to do as Rocky did had become mechanically easy; a glance in his direction every now and then was enough; there was time and temptation to look about and still perhaps to be the first to spot the game.

It was after taking one such casual glance around that I suddenly missed Rocky: a moment later I saw him moving forward, fast but silently, under cover of an ant-heap - stooping low and signing to me with one hand behind his back. With a horrible feeling of having failed him I made a hurried step sideways to get into line behind him and the ant-heap, and I stepped right onto a pile of dry crackly sticks. Rocky stood up quietly and waited, while I wished the earth would open and swallow me. When I got abreast he half turned and looked me over with eyes slightly narrowed and a faint but ominous smile on one side of his mouth, and drawled out gently:

"You's oughter brought some fire crackers!" If only he had sworn at me it would have been endurable.

We moved on again and this time I had eyes for nothing but Rocky's back, and where to put my foot next. It was not very long before he checked in midstride and I stood rigid as a

pointer. Peering intently over his shoulder in the direction in which he looked I could see nothing. The bush was very open, and yet, even with his raised rifle to guide me, I could not for the life of me see what he was aiming at. Then the shot rang out, and a duiker toppled over kicking in the grass not a hundred yards away.

The remembrance of certain things still makes me feel uncomfortable; the yell of delight I let out as the buck fell; the wild dash forward, which died away to a dead stop as I realized that Rocky himself had not moved; the sight of him, as I looked back, calmly reloading; and the silence. To me it was an event: to him, his work. But these things were forgotten then -lost behind the everlasting puzzle, How was it possible I had not seen that buck until it fell? Rocky must have known what was worrying me, for, after we had picked up the buck, he remarked without any preliminary, "It ain't easy in this bush ter pick up what don't move; an' it ain't hardly possible ter find what ye don't know!"

"Game, you mean?" I asked, somewhat puzzled.

"This one was feeding," he answered, after a nod in reply. "I saw his head go up ter listen; but when they don't move, an' you don't jus' know what they look like, you kin 'most walk atop o' them. You got ter kind o' shape 'em in yer eye, an' when you got that fixed you kin pick 'em up 'most anywhere!"

It cost Rocky an effort to volunteer anything. There were others always ready to talk and advise; but they were no help. It was Rocky himself who once said that "the man who's allus offerin' his advice fer nothin' 's askin' 'bout's much's it's worth."

III. "Too PLUCKY"

The only dog with us was licking a cut on her shoulderthe result of an unauthorized rush at a wounded buck- and after an examination of her wound we had wandered over the account of how she had got it, and so on to discussing the dog herself. Rocky sat in silence, smoking and looking into the fire, and the little discussion was closed by some one saying, "She's no good for a hunting dog too plucky!" It was then I saw Rocky's eyes turned slowly on the last speaker; he looked at him thoughtfully for a good minute, and then remarked quietly:

"Thar ain't no sich thing as too plucky!" And with that he stopped, almost as if inviting contradiction. Whether he wanted a reply or not one cannot say; anyway, he got none. No one took Rocky on unnecessarily; and at his leisure he resumed: "Thar's brave men; an' thar's fools; an' you kin get some that's both. But thar's a whole heap that ain't! An' it's jus' the same with dawgs. She's no fool, but she ain't been taught: that's what's the matter with her. Men ha' got to larn: dawgs too! Men ain't born equal: no more's dawgs! One's born better 'n another more brains, more heart; but I ain't yet heard o' the man born with knowledge or experience; that's what they got to learn men an' dawgs! The born fool's got to do fool's work all the time: but the others larn; and the brave man with brains 's got a big pull. He don't get shook up-jus' keeps on thinkin' out his job right along, while th' other feller's worryin' about his hide! An' dawgs is the same." Rocky's eyes-forever grave and thoughtful-rested on the fire; and the remarks that came from the other men passed

unnoticed, but they served to keep the subject alive. Presently he went on again opening with an observation that caused me to move uneasily before there was time to think why!

"Boys is like pups-you got ter help 'em some; but not too much, an' not too soon. They got ter larn themselves. I reckon ef a man's never made a mistake he's never had a good lesson. Ef you don't pay for a thing you don't know what it's worth; and mistakes is part o' the price o' knowledge - the other part is work! But mistakes is the part you don't like payin': thet's why you remember it. You save a boy from makin' mistakes and ef he's got good stuff in him, most like you spoil it. He don't know anything properly, 'cause he don't think; an' he don't think 'cause you saved him the trouble an' he never learned how! He don't know the meanin' o' consequences and risks, 'cause you kep' 'em off him! An' bymbye he gets ter believe it's born in him ter go right, an' knows everything, an' can't go wrong; an' ef things don't pan out in the end he reckon it's jus' bad luck! No! sirree! Ef he's got ter swim you let him know right there that the water's deep an' thar ain't no one to hol' him up, an' ef he don't wade in an' larn, it's goin' ter be his funeral!"

My eyes were all for Rocky, but he was not looking my way, and when the next remark came, and my heart jumped and my hands and feet moved of their own accord, his face was turned quite away from me towards the man on his left.

"An' it's jus' the same 'ith huntin'! It looks so blamed easy he reckons it don't need any teachin'. Well, let him try! Leave him run on his own till his boots is walked off an' he's like to set down and cry, ef he wasn't 'shamed to; let him know every purtickler sort o' blamed fool he can make of himself; an' then

he's fit to teach, 'cause he'll listen, an' watch, an' learn — an' say thank ye fer it! Mostly you got ter make a fool o' yourself once or twice ter know what it feels like an' how t' avoid it: best do it young-it teaches a boy; but it kind o' breaks a man up!"

I kept my eyes on Rocky, avoiding the others, fearing that a look or word might tempt some one to rub it in; and it was a relief when the old man naturally and easily picked up his original point and, turning another look on Jess, said:

"You got ter begin on the pup. It ain't her fault; it's yours. She's full up o' the right stuff, but she got no show to larn! Dawgs is all different, good an' bad-just like men; some larns quick; some'll never larn. But ther' ain't any too plucky!"

He tossed a chip of green wood into the heart of the fire and watched it spurtle and smoke, and, after quite a long pause, added: "Thar's times when a dawg's got to see it through an' be killed. It's his dooty- same as a man's. I seen it done!" The last words were added with a narrowing of his eyes and a curious softening of voice as of personal affection or regret. Others noticed it too; and in reply to a question as to how it had happened Rocky explained in a few words that a wounded buffalo had waylaid and tossed the man over its back, and as it turned again to gore him the dog rushed in between, fighting it off for a time and eventually fastening on to the nose when the buffalo still pushed on. The check enabled the man to reach his gun and shoot the buffalo; but the dog was trampled to death. "Were you. ?" some one began—and then at the look in Rocky's face, hesitated. Rocky, staring into the fire, answered: "It was my dawg!"