Hunting the Lions | Page 3

that every one travelling in the unhealthy regions of South Africa should possess as much knowledge of medicine as possible.
One morning young Dr Brown received a letter from his father which ran as follows:--
"MY DEAR TOM,--A capital opportunity of letting you see a little of the country in which I hope you will ultimately make your fortune has turned up just now. Two officers of the Cape Rifles have made up their minds to go on a hunting excursion into the interior with a trader named Hicks, and want a third man to join them. I knew you would like to go on such an expedition, remembering your leaning in that direction in days of old, so I have pledged you to them. As they start three months hence, the sooner you come out the better. I enclose a letter of credit to enable you to fit out and start at once. Your mother and sisters are all well, and send love.--YOUR AFFECTIONATE FATHER, J.B."
Tom Brown uttered a wild cheer of delight on reading this brief and business-like epistle, and his curious landlady immediately answered to the shout by entering and wishing to know "if he had called and if he wanted hanythink?"
"No, Mrs Pry, I did not call; but I ventured to express my feelings in regard to a piece of good news which I have just received."
"La, sir!"
"Yes, Mrs Pry, I'm going off immediately to South Africa to hunt lions."
"You don't mean it, sir!"
"Indeed I do, Mrs Pry; so pray let me have breakfast without delay, and make up my bill to the end of the week; I shall leave you then. Sorry to part, Mrs Pry. I have been very comfortable with you."
"I 'ope so, sir."
"Yes, very comfortable; and you may be assured that I shall recommend your lodgings highly wherever I go--not that there is much chance of my recommendation doing you any good, for out in the African bush I sha'n't see many men who want furnished lodgings in London, and wild beasts are not likely to make inquiries, being already well provided in that way at home. By the way, when you make up your bill, don't forget to charge me with the tumbler I smashed yesterday in making chemical experiments, and the tea-pot cracked in the same good cause. Accidents will happen, you know, Mrs Pry, and bachelors are bound to pay for 'em."
"Certainly, sir; and please, sir, what am I to do with the cupboard full of skulls and 'uman bones downstairs?"
"Anything you choose, Mrs Pry," said Tom, laughing; "I shall trouble my head no more with such things, so you may sell them if you please, or send them as a valuable gift to the British Museum, only don't bother me about them; and do take yourself off like a good soul, for I must reply to my father's letter immediately."
Mrs Pry retired, and Tom Brown sat down to write a letter to "J.B." in which he briefly thanked him for the letter of credit, and assured him that one of the dearest wishes of his heart was about to be realised, for that still--not less but rather more than when he was a runaway boy--his soul was set upon hunting the lions.
CHAPTER TWO.
SPORT BEGINS IN EARNEST.
Time, which is ever on the wing, working mighty changes in the affairs of man, soon transported our hero from Mrs Pry's dingy little back parlour in London to the luxuriant wilds of Africa.
There, on the evening of a splendid day, he sat down to rest under the grateful shade of an umbrageous tree, in company with Major Garret and Lieutenant Wilkins, both of whom had turned out to be men after Tom Brown's own heart. They were both bronzed strapping warriors, and had entered those regions not only with a view to hunting lions, but also for the purpose of making collections of the plants and insects of the country, the major being a persevering entomologist, while the lieutenant was enthusiastically botanical. To the delight of these gentlemen they found that Tom, although not deeply learned on these subjects, was nevertheless extremely intelligent and appreciative.
The major was very tall, thin; strong, wiry, and black-bearded. The lieutenant was very short, thickset, deep-chested, and powerful. Tom himself was burly, ruddy, broad, and rather above middle size.
"Now this is what I call real felicity," observed the major, pulling out a pipe which he proceeded to fill. Tom Brown followed his example, and Bob Wilkins, who was not a smoker, and had a somewhat facetious disposition, amused himself by quizzing his comrades and carving a piece of wood with his penknife.
"Does the real felicity, major, result from the tobacco or the surrounding circumstances?" asked Wilkins.
"From both, Bob," replied the other with a smile, "and you need not spoil