“Yes,” he said, “I think I can understand it, and because I understand I can appreciate more than you imagine the heroism you have shown in your endurance of all that you have passed through. There can be no bravery where there is no fear. A child might walk into a lion’s den, but it would take a very brave man to go to its rescue.”
“Thank you,” she said, “but I am not brave at all, and now I am very much ashamed of my thoughtlessness for your own feelings. I will try and take a new grip upon myself and we will both hope for the best. I will help you all I can if you will tell me what I may do.”
“The first thing,” he replied, “is to find out just how serious our damage is, and then to see what we can do in the way of repairs.”
For two days Smith-Oldwick worked upon the damaged plane—worked in the face of the fact that from the first he realized the case was hopeless. And at last he told her.
“I knew it,” she said, “but I believe that I felt much as you must have; that however futile our efforts here might be, it would be infinitely as fatal to attempt to retrace our way to the jungle we just left or to go on toward the coast. You know and I know that we could not reach the Tanga railway on foot. We should die of thirst and starvation before we had covered half the distance, and if we return to the jungle, even were we able to reach it, it would be but to court an equally certain, though different, fate.”
“So we might as well sit here and wait for death as to uselessly waste our energies in what we know would be a futile attempt at escape?” he asked.
“No,” she replied, “I shall never give up like that. What I meant was that it was useless to attempt to reach either of the places where we know that there is food and water in abundance, so we must strike out in a new direction. Somewhere there may be water in this wilderness and if there is, the best chance of our finding it would be to follow this gorge downward. We have enough food and water left, if we are careful of it, for a couple of days and in that time we might stumble upon a spring or possibly even reach the fertile country which I know lies to the south. When Usanga brought me to the Wamabo country from the coast he took a southerly route along which there was usually water and game in plenty. It was not until we neared our destination that the country became overrun with carnivores. So there is hope if we can reach the fertile country south of us that we can manage to pull through to the coast.”
The man shook his head dubiously. “We can try it,” he said. “Personally, I do not fancy sitting here waiting for death.”
Smith-Oldwick was leaning against the ship, his dejected gaze directed upon the ground at his feet. The girl was looking south down the gorge in the direction of their one slender chance of life. Suddenly she touched him on the arm.
“Look,” she whispered.
The man raised his eyes quickly in the direction of her gaze to see the massive head of a great lion who was regarding them from beyond a rocky projection at the first turning of the gorge.
“Phew!” he exclaimed, “the beggars are everywhere.”
“They do not go far from water do they,” asked the girl hopefully.
“I should imagine not,” he replied; “a lion is not particularly strong on endurance.”
“Then he is a harbinger of hope,” she exclaimed.
The man laughed. “Cute little harbinger of hope!” he said. “Reminds me of Cock Robin heralding spring.”
The girl cast a quick glance at him. “Don’t be silly, and I don’t care if you do laugh. He fills me with hope.”
“It is probably mutual,” replied Smith-Oldwick, “as we doubtless fill him with hope.”
The lion evidently having satisfied himself as to the nature of the creatures before him advanced slowly now in their direction.
“Come,” said the man, “let’s climb aboard,” and he helped the girl over the side of the ship.
“Can’t he get in here?” she asked.
“I think he can,” said the man.
“You are reassuring,” she returned.
“I don’t feel so.” He drew his pistol.
“For heaven’s sake,” she cried, “don’t shoot at him with that thing. You might hit him.”
“I don’t intend to shoot at him but I might succeed in frightening him away if he attempts to reach us here. Haven’t you ever seen a trainer work with lions? He carries a silly little popgun loaded with blank cartridges. With that and a kitchen chair he subdues the most ferocious of beasts.”
“But you haven’t a kitchen chair,” she reminded him.
“No,” he said, “Government is always muddling things. I have always maintained that airplanes should be equipped with kitchen chairs.”
Bertha Kircher laughed as evenly and with as little hysteria as though she were moved by the small talk of an afternoon tea.
Numa, the lion, came steadily toward them; his attitude seemed more that of curiosity than of belligerency. Close to the side of the ship he stopped and stood gazing up at them.
“Magnificent, isn’t he?” exclaimed the man.
“I never saw a more beautiful creature,” she replied, “nor one with such a dark coat. Why, he is almost black.”
The sound of their voices seemed not to please the lord of the jungle, for he suddenly wrinkled his great face into deep furrows as he bared his fangs beneath snarling lips and gave vent to an angry growl. Almost simultaneously he crouched for a spring and immediately Smith-Oldwick discharged his pistol into the ground in front of the lion. The effect of the noise upon Numa seemed but to enrage him further, and with a horrid roar he sprang
