As he rode forward he came upon an open stretch of ground, and the first object that struck his attention was a well-knit Kaffir on one knee covering his body with a Martini-Henry.

The distance was about eighty yards, and Baden-Powell, telling the story, says that he felt so indignant at the fellow's rudeness that he rode at him as hard as he could gallop, calling him every name under the sun.

But the Kaffir was not to be moved even by the best-bred abuse, and he remained kneeling with the rifle pointed at B.-P., until that horseman, with locked jaws and gleaming eyes (those who know him will understand), was only ten yards off.

Then he fired, and B.-P.

says he felt quite relieved "when I realised he had clean missed me." That nigger was shot immediately afterwards by one of Baden-Powell's men, who was riding to his help from behind.
The other close shave will make the nervous turn cold to think of it.
B.-P.