It would be hard to convey the tone of wonder contained in that brief exclamation, and then at the tone of another voice the hunted and desperate man could hardly trust his own sense of hearing.
“Wyvern, old chap, come on out. It’s only me and Hlabulana.”
The next moment he and Joe Fleetwood were gripping hands. Hlabulana the while began to uncork his snuff-horn.
“This is awfully funny,” went on Fleetwood. “We had suspicions that it was Bully Rawson in there, and were concocting some scheme for getting him out—you know the brute’s quite capable of shooting the pair of us on sight. But how did you get away?”
“Mtezani cut me loose in the scrimmage, but they chevied me a good way I can tell you.” Then he narrated what had subsequently happened. “Got any scoff, Joe?” he concluded. “I’m starving.”
“Only some pounded mealies, which Hlabulana managed to raise from Heaven knows where. Here—fall on.”
While Wyvern was satisfying his cravings with this plain fare, Fleetwood narrated his own escape, which had been effected by Hlabulana under exactly similar circumstances, except that it had not been discovered, and therefore he had not been pursued.
“He told me that Mtezani was taking care of you,” he concluded, “so I came away easy in mind, feeling sure we should come together again when, things were quiet, and we have.”
“By Jove we have! And to think of you having taken me for Bully Rawson. I don’t feel flattered, Joe.”
The other broke into a laugh.