lay in the same nest.”

“At home, shut up in pens, but not on the veldt.”

“Why, of course they do, and ’tis their nature to, like the bears and lions in Dr Watts. You don’t know everything quite yet, old chap. If you took the glass, and came and lay out here for two or three days and nights, and always supposing the birds didn’t see you—because if they did they’d be deserting the nest and go somewhere else—you’d see first one hen come to lay and then another, perhaps six of them; and when they’d packed the nest as full as it would hold, with the sand banked up round the eggs to keep them tight in their places with the points downwards, so as to be close, you’d see hen after hen come and take her turn, sitting all day, while the cock bird comes at nights and takes his turn, because he’s bigger and stronger, and better able to pitch into the prowling jackals.”

“How did you know all this, Joe?”

“Partly observation, partly from what I’ve heard Jack say,” replied Emson modestly. “Everything comes in useful. I daresay you won’t repent saving up all those odds and ends of stones and shells and eggs you’ve got at home.”

“Why, I often thought you’d feel they were a nuisance, Joe. I did see you laugh at them more than once.”

“Smile, old man, smile—that’s all. I like it. You might grow a regular museum out of small beginnings like that.”

“Then we ought to have stuffed the goblin,” cried Dyke merrily.

“Oh, come, no; that wouldn’t do. Our tin house isn’t the British Museum; but I would go on collecting bits of ore and things. You may find something worth having one of these days, besides picking up a lot of knowledge. I’d put that piece of old iron the ostrich swallowed along with the rest.”

“Would you?”

“Yes; but now let’s have all eyes, and no tongues, old chap. We are getting near where that bird got up off the nest.”

“If there was one.”

“If there was one,” assented Emson. “Now then: think you’re mushrooming out in the old field at home, and see if you can’t find the nest. Move off now a couple of hundred yards, and keep your eyes open.”

Dyke followed out his brother’s advice, and for the next hour they rode over the ground here and there, to and fro, and across and across, scanning the sandy depressions, till Emson suddenly drew rein, and shouted to Dyke, who was a quarter of a mile away.

Dyke sent his cob off at a gallop and joined him.

“Found it?” he cried excitedly.

“No, old fellow. It’s a failure this time. Man wants sharp eyes to get the better of an ostrich. I made sure we should get it, but we’re done. We’ve been over the ground times enough, and it’s of no use.”

“What! give up?” cried Dyke merrily. “Didn’t say we’d find it the first time, but I mean to have that nest, if I try till to-morrow morning.”

“Well done, little un,” shouted Emson, laughing. “That’s the right spirit, and I should like to have had the eggs; it would have started us on again. But I’m afraid we shall be wasting time, for we’ve lost count now of the position where I saw the bird rise, and in this great waste we may wander farther and farther away.”

“But we can tell by the hoof-marks where we’ve been.”

“Yes; and we’ve pretty well examined the ground. I tell you what, we’ll bring the glass this evening, and lie down watching till dark. We may see a bird come to the nest, and then we’ll mark down the place, and one shall stop back, while the other rides forward, and number one can telegraph which way to go with his arms.”

“I am disappointed,” said Dyke, looking round about him over the level plain.

“So am I, old chap, but we won’t be damped. It’s only putting it off.—What are you looking at?”

“That,” said Dyke; and, kicking his nag’s sides, he went off at a canter for a couple of hundred yards, and then sent up a joyous shout.

“Why, he has found it!” cried Emson; and galloping up, there sat Dyke, flushed and happy, beside a depression in the sand, evidently scraped out, and with the sand banked round to keep the eggs in their places. There they all were, thirty-nine in number, neatly arranged with their points downward, while outside were several more, and on Dyke bending down, he found that they were all of a comfortable temperature; those lying outside being cold, and apparently freshly laid.

“Well, you have eyes, old chap!” cried Emson, slapping his brother on the shoulder, and then proceeding to loosen a coarsely meshed net from behind his saddle. “Bravo, Dyke! I told you the tide had turned. We’ll get these home at once and put them under one of our hens. Shouldn’t wonder if we get a nice little lot of chicks from these.”

“If we can get them home without breaking.”

“Oh, we’ll do that,” cried Emson, dismounting and spreading out the net upon the sand before they began carefully removing the spoil of the nest—that is to say, the eggs, which evidently contained chicks.

This done, the net was folded over and tied here and there so as to form a long bag, the ends fastened securely; and each taking an end, they mounted, and swinging between them the huge bag, which now weighed nearly a hundredweight, started for home. They left the new-laid eggs to be fetched that evening, or next morning, leaving them just as they were spread, looking clean and fresh, about the outside of the nest, much to Dyke’s regret.

“Why, we could manage them too,” he said.

“We might, but if we did we should have mixed them up with the others, which would be a pity; for if we put them under a bird, they would only be addled, whereas if we keep them separate, they will be good either to set under another hen, or to eat. They will not hurt there.”

Dyke said no more, but held on tightly to the end of the net, helping his brother to keep their horses a sufficient distance apart, so that the egg purse might keep well off the ground, and not be shaken too much by the horses’ gentle pace.

“Wonder what the young birds think of their ride,” said Dyke merrily. “We shall have one of them chipping an egg presently, and poking out his head to see what’s the matter, and why things are getting so cold.”

“Cold, in this scorching sun!” said Emson; “why it would hatch them out. Hold tight.”

“Right it is!” cried Dyke in seafaring style. “I say, what a smash it would be if I let go!”

“Ah, it would,” said Emson; “but you won’t. Cry stop when you’re tired, and we’ll change hands.—Steady, boy!” he continued to his horse, which seemed disposed to increase its speed, and they jogged gently along again.

“I always used to read that the ostriches did lay their eggs in the sand and leave them for the sun to hatch.”

“There is some truth in it,” said Emson; “but the old writers didn’t get to the bottom of it. The sun would hatch them if it kept on shining, but the cold nights would chill the eggs and undo all the day’s work. It’s of a night that the birds sit closest.—Like to change now?”

“Yes: they are getting heavy for one’s wrist,” said Dyke; and the great purse was lowered to the ground, the eggs clicking together as if made of china. Then the brothers changed places and hands; raised the net; the horses hung apart again, and the slow journey was resumed.

“Gently!” cried Dyke before they had gone very far. “If you hang away so hard, I shall be dragged out of the saddle.”

The tension was relaxed, and they went on again riding by slow degrees back to Kopfontein, which they finally reached with their heavy and fragile load intact.

Dyke was hungry enough, but they neither ate nor rested till their eggs were borne into one of the pens where three hens and their husband had a nest which contained only ten eggs, and these were known to be addled, for the time