“All right,” he said grimly, then aimed at a white breast and fired.  The pack scattered into the reeds; there was a beating and kicking noise, followed by a wild rush, a savage snarling and snapping of teeth.  Dog was eating dog; and, with a feeling of disgust and contempt, he prepared himself to rest.  A little later the white circle was complete again, and the silent inspection was continued.  This got on his nerves, and, springing over the fire with his rifle clubbed, he gave two sweeping blows.  The dogs slipped away from his front, only to reappear with threatening growls on his flank.  He leapt back to safety and fired; but the light was bad, and he missed.  Piling on a few more reeds, he emptied his magazine rapidly, facing all parts of the circle, and making some hits, as he judged from the howling that went up.

“There!” he shouted savagely, “will that satisfy you?” The pack fell upon the wounded, and was back again into position, coming closer and closer as the fires died down.

Then he remembered the stories he had heard of the persistence of the wild-dogs—­how they would drive off even a lion from his prey—­ and he fell to counting his cartridges.  There were only five left.  He counted the dogs.  There were more than fifteen, as far as he could reckon; and if he reduced them to ten, he could not hope to withstand the final rush of ten big-jawed and active animals.  Even if he could keep them off in that open space, he could not stay there another day; and if they tackled him in the reeds, he would have no chance.  He began to rack his brain for a scheme; but while he thought, the circle closed in until quite plainly he could distinguish the staring eyes all centered upon him.  He piled on more fuel, and as the flames sprang up they fell back.  As the flames died down, they advanced as by a given signal.  He kept on adding to the fires until his fingers, groping for fresh reeds, found none, and the sweat broke out on his forehead.  In one hour at least there would not be light enough from the smouldering heaps for him to see a mark, and then—­something had to be done!

No doubt the watchful eyes saw the sign of fear in his face.  At once the circle closed in, and this time he could see that several of the dogs were not sitting, but standing, as if ready for the final spring.  He fingered a cartridge, then suddenly flung it into the topmost heap of glowing ash.  The eyes of the pack followed the missile, and for a second each dog looked at the heap.  As they looked there was a report, and a mass of live embers was scattered high and wide, over them, over the opening, into the fringe of reeds.  With wild yelps of fear and pain the pack broke, and Compton groveled on the ground with his hands before his face, for he had flattened himself just in time to escape being blinded by the burning dust, some of which, however, did get into his eyes.  A little fly in the eye, as many a cyclist has found to his cost, is enough to engage