Jack Meredith was too clever a man to be conceited in the wrong place, which is the habit of fools.

He recognised very plainly that he was not distinguishing himself in this new field of glory; he was not yet an accomplished big-game hunter.
Twice he raised his rifle with the intention of firing at random into the underwood on the remote chance of bringing his enemy into the open.
But the fascination of this duel of cunning was too strong, and he crept onwards with bated breath.
It was terrifically hot, and all the while Night was stalking westward on the summits of the trees with stealthy tread.
While absorbed in the intricacies of pursuit--while anathematising tendrils and condemning thorns to summary judgment--Jack Meredith was not losing sight of his chance of getting back to the little village of Msala.

He knew that he had only to follow the course of the stream downwards, retracing his steps until a junction with the Ogowe river was effected.

In the meantime his lips were parted breathlessly, and there was a light in the quiet eyes which might have startled some of his well-bred friends could they have seen it.
At last he came to an open space made by a slip of the land into the bed of the river.

When Jack Meredith came to this he stepped out of the thicket and stood in the open, awaiting the approach of his stealthy prey.