We had not touched fresh meat for many days, as there had been no time for shooting; but I knew that game was plentiful¹ across the river in the rough country between the Kaap and Crocodile, and I started off to make the best of the day’s delay, little dreaming that it was to be the last time Jock and I would hunt together.  
Weeks had passed without a hunt, and Jock must have thought there was a sad falling away on the part of his master; he no longer expected anything; the rifle was never taken down now except for an odd shot from the outspan or to put some poor animal out of its misery². Since the night with the lions, when he had been ignominiously³ cooped up, there had been nothing to stir his blood and make life worth living; and this morning as he saw me rise from breakfast and proceed to potter about the waggons⁴ in the way he had come to regard as inevitable⁵, he looked on indifferently for a few minutes and then stretched out full length in the sun and went to sleep.
 
I could not take him with me across the river, as the ‘fly’ was said to be bad there, and it was no place to risk horse or dog. The best of prospects⁶ would not have tempted⁷ me to take chance with him, but I hated ordering him to stay behind, as it hurt his dignity and sense of comradeship, so it seemed a happy accident that he was asleep and I could slip away unseen. As the cattle were grazing along the river bank only a few hundred yards off, I took a turn that way to have a look at them, with natural but quite fruitless concern for their welfare, and a moment later met the herd⁸ boy running towards me and calling out excitedly something which I made out to be:
 
“Crocodile! Crocodile, Inkos! A crocodile has taken one of the oxen.” The waggon-boys heard it also, and armed with assegais and sticks were on the bank almost as soon as I was; but there was no sign of crocodile or bullock. The boy showed us the place where the weakened animal had gone down to drink—the hoof⁹ slides were plain enough—and told how, as it drank, the long black coffin-head had appeared out of the water. He described stolidly¹⁰ how the big jaws¹¹ had opened and gripped the bullock’s nose; how he, a few yards away, had seen the struggle; how he had shouted and hurled¹² his sticks and stones and tufts of grass, and feinted to rush down at it; and how, after a muffled¹³

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