He could follow spoor like a Bushman, and would have riddled the Portuguese Jew's track out of any jungle on earth.

That was a game I had never learned, for in the old days I had always left it to my natives.

I chucked the attempt, and lay disconsolately on a warm patch of grass and smoked and thought about Peter.

But my chief reflections were that I had breakfasted at five, that it was now eleven, that I was intolerably hungry, that there was nothing here to feed a grasshopper, and that I should starve unless I got supplies.
It was a long road to my cache, but there were no two ways of it.

My only hope was to sit tight in the glen, and it might involve a wait of days.