Then, oh! then Hans did something to the end of his great bamboo stick, turned it gently upside down and out of it slid the barrel of a rifle neatly tied round with greased cloth and stoppered at the muzzle with a piece of tow! I could have kissed him.

Yes, such was my joy that I could have kissed that hideous, smelly old Hottentot.
"The stock ?" I panted.

"The barrel isn't any use without the stock, Hans." "Oh! Baas," he answered, grinning, "do you think that I have shot with you all these years without knowing that a rifle must have a stock to hold it by ?" Then he slipped off the bundle from his back, undid the lashings of the blanket, revealing the great yellow head of tobacco that had excited my own and Komba's interest on the shores of the lake.

This head he tore apart and produced the stock of the rifle nicely cleaned, a cap set ready on the nipple, on to which the hammer was let down, with a little piece of wad between to prevent the cap from being fired by any sudden jar.
"Hans," I exclaimed, "Hans, you are a hero and worth your weight in gold!" "Yes, Baas, though you never told me so before.

Oh! I made up my mind that I wouldn't go to sleep in the face of the Old Man (death).