Somebody gave Coutlass a handful of cartridges that fitted his Mauser rifle and he was off in the lead like a hero leading a forlorn hope, we after him.

We searched high and low but lost all trace of the rhino, and at the end of half an hour the engine's whistle called us back.

There were blood and hair all over the engine--blood and hair on our car, but the rhino had been as determined in defeat as in attack, and if he died of his wounds he contrived to do it alone and in dignity.
"That leaves Coutlass with six cartridges," said I, overtaking Fred.
"Let's hope their owner asks for them back." The owner did ask for them.

He stood with his hand out by the door of the Greek's compartment.
"You didn't use those cartridges," he said.
"But I will!" sneered Coutlass.

"Out of my way!" He sprang for his door and slammed it in the man's face, and the other Greek and the Goanese jeered through the window.