They did not look like fishermen, those two young men in khaki, for people do not generally go fishing with magazine-rifles instead of fishing-rods – certainly not in England. But this was in South Africa, and that makes all the difference. In addition, they were fishing in a South African river, where both of them were in profound ignorance as to what might take their bait first; and they were talking about this when they first reached the bank and saw the swift river flowing onward – a lovely river whose banks were like cliffs, consequent upon ages of the swift stream cutting its way downward through the soft earth, while here and there clumps of trees grew luxuriantly green, and refreshed the eyes of the lookers-on after a couple of months spent in riding over the drab and dreary veldt.

“Tackle isn’t half strong enough,” said the younger of the two, who was nearly good-looking; in fact, he would have been handsome if he had not always worn so stupid an aspect. “Think there are any crocodiles here?”

“Likely enough, Bobby.”

“S’pose one of them takes the bait?”

“Well, suppose he does!” said the other, who resembled his companion, minus the stupid look; for if the keen, dark-grey eyes were truth-tellers of what was behind them, he was, as the men in his company said, sharp as a needle.

“S’pose he does!” said the young man addressed as Bobby – otherwise Robert Dickenson, second lieutenant in Her Majesty’s – th Mounted Infantry. “Well, that’s a cool way of talking. Suppose he does! Why, suppose one of the great magnified efts swallows the bait?”

“Suppose he does. What then?”

“Why, he’ll be more likely to pull me in than let me pull him out.”

“No doubt about it, if the line doesn’t break.”

“What should I do then, Drew, old man?”

“I don’t know what you’d do, my little man. I know what I should do.”

“Yes. What?”

“Let go.”

“Ah, I didn’t think of that,” said the young officer quite calmly. “I say, though, if it turned out to be a hippopotamus?”

“I wish it would, Bobby – that is, so long as it was a nice fat calf. I’m so ragingly hungry that I should look upon a steak off one of those india-rubber gentlemen as the greatest delicacy under the sun.”

“Oh, don’t talk nonsense. One of those things wouldn’t be likely to bite. But I say, Drew, old chap, do you think there are any fish to be caught?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea, Bobby. But here’s a river; it looks likely. Fishes live in rivers; why shouldn’t they be here?”

“To be sure; why not?” said the other, brightening up and looking better. “Who knows? There may be carp and tench, eels and pike.”

“Not likely, Bobby, my lad; but most probably there are fish of some kind, such as live on this side of the equator.”

“Mahseer, perhaps – eh?”

“Bah! This is Africa, not northern India. Let’s get down and make a beginning. We had better get down through that woody rift.”

“I wish I’d got my six-jointed rod, old fellow.”

“But as you haven’t, we must try what we can do with a line.”

“I say, it was lucky you thought to bring some hooks.”

“They were meant to try in the sea, old fellow, but I never had a chance. Come softly, and be on the lookout.”

“Eh?” cried the young man addressed, bringing the rifle he carried to the ready. “Boers?”

“Oh no; our fellows are not likely to let any of those gentlemen approach. I thought we might perhaps put up a deer, antelope, buck, or something.”

“Venison roast, hot, juicy! Oh Drew, old man, don’t; pray don’t! You gave me such an awful pang. Oh dear! oh dear!”

“Pst! Quiet! Don’t build your hopes on anything, because I dare say we shall be disappointed; but still we might.”

“Ah, might!” said the young officer. “Oh dear! I thought we might get wounded, or have a touch of fever, but I never expected that we should run the risk of being starved to death.”

“Then give us a chance of escaping that fate by keeping your tongue quiet. If we don’t get a shot at something down there, we may still hit upon a bag of fish.”

“Forward!” whispered the young officer, and together the pair approached the wooded gully and cautiously began to descend it to reach the river; but all proved to be silent, and in spite of their caution not a bush rustled, and their patient movements were in vain.

“I did expect a shot at something,” said the elder officer in a disappointed tone.

“Venison was too much,” said Bobby. “I expected it would be a sneaking leopard, or one of those doggy-looking monkeys.”

“The baboons? Oh no; they’d be among the rocky hills. But you need not be surprised, for this is the land of disappointments.”

“Oh, I say, don’t talk like that, Drew, old chap,” said the younger officer. “Fishermen have bad luck enough always, without your prophesying ill before we begin.”

“One can’t help it out here. Hang it all! we’ve had nothing but misfortunes ever since we came. Now then, you sit down on that rock, and I’ll sit on this.”

“Why not keep close together?”

“Because if we do we shall be getting our lines tangled.”

“Of course; I forgot that. Here, you’ll want some bait.”

The speaker took a small tin canister from his pocket, unscrewed the lid, and made by the help of his pocket-knife a fair division of some nasty, sticky-looking paste, which looked as if it would soon wash off the hook upon which it was placed; and then the two fishermen separated and took up their stations about fifty yards apart, the two stones standing well out in the rapid current which washed around them and proved advantageous, from the fact that they had only to drop the baited hook into the water at their feet, when the swift stream bore it outward and away, the fishers merely having to let out line and wait, watchful and patient, for a bite.

It was very calm and beautiful in the bend of the river that they had chosen. There was a faint breeze, apparently caused by the rush of the stream, whose rippling amongst the stones with which the shore beneath the cliff-like bank was strewed made pleasant music; and as soon as the whole of the line was paid out the two young men sat silent and watchful, waiting for the tug which should tell that there was a fish at work. But a good ten minutes elapsed, and there was no sign.

“Humph!” grunted Dickenson, after his patience was exhausted. “No mistake about there being fish here.”

“How do you know?”

“One of them has taken my bait.”

It was on Drew’s lips to say, “Washed off by the stream;” but he remained silent as he softly pulled in his own line, to find nothing but the bare hook.

“There! do you see?” he said softly, the sound of his voice passing over the water so that it was like a whisper at his friend’s ear, as he dangled the bare hook.

“Oh yes, I see: fish nibbled it off.”

“Hope you are right,” said Drew softly, as he rebaited, dropped in the white marble of paste, and watched it glide down the stream, drawing out one by one the rings of line which he had carefully coiled up on the rock when he drew it out.

Then stooping and picking a long, heavy, stream-washed, slaty fragment from out of the water by his side, he made the end of his line fast to it and laid it at his feet, so as to have his hands at liberty. With these he drew out a cigarette-case and opened it, but his brow puckered up as he looked disconsolately at its contents.

“The last two,” he said softly. “Better keep ’em. Be more hungry perhaps by-and-by.”

Closing the case, he replaced it in his breast-pocket.

“The hardest job I know of,” he muttered, “practising self-denial.” Then aloud, “Well, Bob, do they bite?”

“No: only suck. Lost two more baits; but I shall have a big one directly.”

“Glad of it. How will you cook it – roast or boil?”

“Don’t chaff. Mind your own line.”

Drew Lennox smiled, glanced down at his line, which the stream had now drawn out tight, and, satisfied that the stone to which it was tied would give him fair warning if he were fortunate enough to get a bite, he stepped back, picked up his rifle, and taking out his handkerchief, began to give it a rub here and a rub there, to add polish to the well-cleaned barrel, trigger-guard, and lock.

He took some time over this, but at last all was to his satisfaction; and laying down the piece on the rock by his side, he once more drew up his line, glancing up-stream, to see that his companion was similarly occupied, both finding the bait gone.

“I say, isn’t it aggravating?” said Dickenson. “I know what they are – sort of mullet-like fish with small mouths. Put on a smaller bait.”

“All right; good plan,” said Lennox.

“Wish to goodness I’d a few well-scoured English worms. I’d soon let the fish know!”

“Ah, I suppose they would be useful,” said Lennox, moulding up a piece of paste and trying to make it as hard as he could. “I say, Bob.”

“Hullo!”

“I’ve read that you can dig up great fat worms here in South Africa, eighteen inches long.”

“Dig one up, then, and I’ll cut it into eighteen inch-long baits.”

“I didn’t bring a spade with me, old fellow,” said Drew, smiling.

“Humph! Why didn’t you?”

“Same reason that you didn’t bring out some worms in your kit. I say, are you loaded?”

“Of course. You asked me before.”

Drew Lennox said no more, but glanced up-stream and down-stream, after starting his bait once again upon its swim. Then, after watching the rings uncoil till the line was tight, he swept the edge of the opposite bank some fifty yards away, carefully searching the clumps of trees and bushes, partly in search of a lurking enemy or spying Kaffir, taught now by experience always to be on the alert, and partly in the faint hope of catching a glimpse of something in the shape of game such as would prove welcome in the famine that he and his comrades were experiencing.

But, as he might have known in connection with game, their coming would have been quite sufficient to scare off the keen eared and eyed wild creatures; and he glanced down at his line again, thinking in a rather hopeless way that he and his friend might just as well have stayed in camp at the laager they had fortified with so much care.

His next act was to open the flap of his belt holster and carefully withdraw the revolver which now rarely left his side. After a short examination of the mechanism, this came in for a good rub and polish from the handkerchief before it was replaced.

“Nearly had one,” cried his companion, after a snatch at the line he held.

“Didn’t get a bite, did you?”

“Bite? A regular pull; but I was a bit too late. Why don’t you attend to your fishing instead of fiddle-faddling with that revolver? Pull up your line.”

Drew Lennox smiled doubtingly as he drew the leather cover of the holster over the stud before stooping to take hold of the line at his feet.

“I believe that was all fancy, Master Bobby,” he said. “If there have been any fish here, the crocodiles have cleared them out, or the Boers have netted them. It will be dry biscuit for us again to-night, or – My word!”

“Got one?” cried Dickenson, excited in turn, for his brother officer’s manner had suddenly changed from resigned indifference to eager action, as he felt the violent jerk given to his line by something or other that he had hooked.

“Got one? Yes; a monster. Look how he pulls.”

“Oh, be careful; be careful old chap!” cried Dickenson wildly, and he left the stone upon which he was standing to hurry to his friend’s side. “That’s a fifteen or twenty pound fish, and it means dinner for the mess.”

“I believe it’s a young crocodile,” said Lennox. “My word, how it tugs!”

“Play it – play it, man! Don’t pull, or you’ll drag the hook out of its jaws. Give it line.”

“Can’t; he has it all out.”

“Then you’ll have to follow it down-stream.”

“What! go into the water? No, thanks.”

“What! shrink from wading when you’ve got on a fish like that at the end of your line? Here, let me come.”

“No; I’ll play the brute and land him myself. But, I say, it’s a fine one of some kind; pulls like an eel. Look how it’s wagging its head from side to side.”

“Better let me come,” said Dickenson, whose face was scarlet from excitement.

“Get out!”

“I’ll never forgive you if you lose that fish, Lennox, old man.”

“Not going to lose him. Look; he has turned, and is coming up-stream;” for the line, which a few moments before was being violently jerked, suddenly grew slack.

“Gone! gone! gone!” cried Dickenson, with something of a sob in his throat.

“You be quiet!” said Drew. “I thought, it was only a bit of wood a few minutes ago.”

“Fish, of course, and the hook’s broken away.”

“Think so?” was the cool reply, as foot after foot of the line was drawn in. “I was beginning to be of the opinion that he had given it up as a bad job and was swimming right in to surrender.”

“No; I told you so. You’ve dragged the hook right out the fish’s jaws, and – Oh, I’m blessed!”

“With a good opinion of yourself, Bobby,” said Drew, laughing; for after softly hauling in about eight or ten yards of the stout water-cord he felt the fish again, when it gave one smart tug at the line and dashed up past the stone, running out all that had been recovered in a very few seconds.

Directly after there was a check and a jerk at the officer’s hand, while a cry escaped his lips as he let the line go and stooped to pick up his rifle.

“That’s no good,” began Dickenson.

“Quick, man! Down with you! – Ah! you’ve left your rifle. Cover!”

“Oh!” ejaculated Dickenson; and his jaw dropped, and he stood motionless, staring across the river at the sight before him on the other bank.

“Hands up! Surrender! You’re surrounded!” shouted a rough voice. “Drop that rifle, or we fire.”

Drew Lennox was bent nearly double in the act of raising it as these words were uttered, and he saw before him some twenty or thirty barrels, whose holders had covered him, and apparently only awaited another movement on the young officer’s part to shoot him down as they would have done a springbok.

“Oh dear!” groaned Dickenson; “to come to this!” And he was in the act of raising his hands in token of surrender when his comrade’s head caught him full in the chest and drove him back among the bushes which grew densely at the mouth of the gully.

Crack! crack! crack! crack! rang out half-a-dozen rifles, and Lennox, who as the consequence of his spring was lying right across his comrade, rolled off him.

“Hurt?” panted the latter in agonised tones.

“No. Now then, crawl after me.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Creep up level with your rifle, and cover you while you get it.”

“Is it any use, old fellow? There’s about fifty of them over yonder.”

“I don’t care if there are five hundred,” growled Lennox through his teeth. “Come along; we must keep it up till help comes from the laager.”

“Then you mean to fight?” panted Dickenson as he crawled after his leader; while the Boers from the other side kept up a dropping fire right into and up the gully, evidently under the impression that the two officers were making that their line of retreat instead of creeping under cover of the bushes at the foot of the cliff-like bank, till Drew stopped opposite where the abandoned rifle lay upon the stone Dickenson had left, so far unseen.

Where they stopped the bushes were shorter and thinner, and they had a good view of the enemy, who had taken cover close to the edge of their bank and were keeping up a steady fire, sending their bullets searching the dense growth of the ravine, while about a dozen mounted men now appeared, cantering along towards where there was a ford about a mile lower down.

“That’s to surround us, old man,” said Dickenson. “The miserable liars! There isn’t a man this side. But oh, my chest! You’ve knocked in some of my ribs.”

“Hang your ribs! We must get that rifle.”

“Wait till I get my wind back,” panted Dickenson. – “Oh, what a fool I was to lay it down!”

“You were, Bobby; you were,” said Drew quietly. “Here, hold mine, and I’ll dash out and bring it back.”

“No, you don’t!” cried the young officer; and as he crouched there on all fours he bounded out like a bear, seized the rifle from where it lay, and rushed back, followed by the shouts and bullets of four or five Boers, who saw him, but not quickly enough to get an effective aim.

“Now call me a fool again,” panted Dickenson, shuffling himself behind a stone.

It was Drew Lennox’s rifle that spoke, not he, as in reply to the fire they had brought upon them he took careful aim and drew trigger, when one of the Boers sprang up fully into sight, turned half-round, threw up his rifle, and fell back over the edge of the cliff among the bushes similar to those which sheltered the young Englishmen.

“Good shot, lad!”

“Yes. On his own head be it,” said Lennox. “A cowardly ambush. Fire as soon as you can steady yourself. Where are you? I can’t see you.”

“Ahint this stone, laddie,” replied Dickenson coolly enough now. “And you?”

“Behind this one here.”

“That’s right; I was afraid you were only bushed. Ah! my turn,” —crack! – “now. Bull’s-eye, old man.”

As the words left his lips Lennox fired again, and another Boer who was badly hidden sprang up and dropped back.

“Two less,” said Drew in a husky whisper, while crack! crack! went the Boer rifles, and a peculiar shattering echo arose from the far side of the river as the bullets flattened upon the rocks or cut the bushes like knives; while from being few in number they rapidly became more, those of the enemy who had been searching the gully down which the young men had come now concentrating their fire upon the little cluster of rocks and trees behind which they were hidden.

“Don’t waste a cartridge, Bob lad,” said Lennox, whose voice sounded strange to his companion, “and hold your magazine in case they try a rush.”

“Or for those fellows who’ll come round by the ford,” replied Dickenson.

“Never mind them. The firing will bring our lads out, and they’ll tackle those gentlemen.”

“All right. – Ah! I’ve been waiting for you, my friend,” whispered Dickenson, and he fired quickly at one of the enemy who was creeping along towards a spot from which he probably thought he would be able to command the spot where the young Englishmen lay. But he never reached it. He just exposed himself once for a few moments, crawling like a short, thick snake. Then his rifle was jerked upwards to the full extent of the poor wretch’s arm and fell back. He made no other movement, but lay quite still, while the rifles around him cracked and the bullets pattered faster and faster about where the two young men were hidden.

“I say, how queer your voice is!” said Dickenson. “Not hurt, are you?”

“No, and yes. This hurts me, Bob lad. I almost wish I wasn’t such a good shot.”

“I don’t,” muttered the other. “I want to live.” Then aloud, “Don’t talk like that, man! It’s their lives or ours. Hit every one you can. – Phew! that was near my skull. I say, I don’t call this coming fishing.”

He turned towards his comrade with a comical look of dismay upon his countenance after a very narrow escape from death, a bullet having passed through his cap, when whizz! whizz! whirr! half-a-dozen more bullets passed dangerously near.

“Mind, for goodness’ sake!” shouted Lennox, in a voice full of the agony he felt. “Don’t you see that you are exposing yourself?”

“What am I to do?” cried the young officer angrily. “If I lean an inch that way they fire at me, and if I turn this way it’s the same.”

“Creep closer to the stone.”

“Then I can’t take aim.”

“Then don’t try. We’ve got to shelter till their firing brings help.”

“Oh, it’s all very fine to talk, Drew, old chap, but I’m not going to lie here like a target for them to practise at without giving the beggars tit for tat. – Go it, you ugly Dutch ruffians! There, how do you like that?”

He fired as he spoke, after taking careful aim at another, who, from a post of vantage, kept on sending his bullets dangerously near.

“Did you hit?” asked Lennox.

“I think so,” was the reply. “He has backed away.”

“We must keep on firing at them,” said Lennox; “but keep your shots for those who are highest up there among the trees.”

He set the example as he spoke, firing, after taking a long and careful aim, at a big-bearded fellow who had crawled some distance to his right so as to try and take the pair in the flank. The Boer had reached his fresh position by making a rush, and his first shot struck the stones close to Drew’s face, sending one up to inflict a stinging blow on the cheek, while in the ricochet it went whizzing by Dickenson’s shoulder, making him start and utter an angry ejaculation, for he had again exposed himself.

“Wish I could break myself off bad habits,” he muttered, as a little shower of bullets came whizzing about them, but too late to harm.

There was a certain amount of annoyance in his tones, for he noted that, while he had started up a little, his companion, in spite of the stinging blow he had received on the cheek, lay perfectly motionless upon his chest, waiting his time, finger on trigger, and ready to give it a gentle pressure when he had ceased to aim at one particular spot where he had seen the Boer’s head for a moment.

He did not have long to wait; for the moment the Boer had fired he slightly raised his head to try and mark the effect of his shot.

That was sufficient. Lennox squeezed rather than pulled the trigger, and as the smoke rose the bush which had sheltered the Boer moved violently for a few moments, and all was still there; while the young officer quickly reloaded and waited to see if another man took his enemy’s place.