“Tell you what, old man. We both look all fired ruffians enough just now to be taken even for him. At least, I feel it, and can truthfully assure you you look it. And now what are we going to do next? I’ve got a bull-dog six-shooter here that the idiots forgot to bag when they trussed us up.”
“I haven’t even got that,” laughed Wyvern. “I was going to brain the pair of you with a most murderous stone club which I tore up out of the ground. It’s sharp as a sword on one side.”
Something in the words seemed to strike Fleetwood.
“Sharp as a sword?” he echoed.
“Why yes. What’s there in particular about that?”
“Why only that it’ll do to dig with.”
“To dig with? Are we in a position to do our fossicking now?”
“Rather. Now we’re here—bang on the very spot we should be record idiots if we didn’t do something towards discovering what we’ve come for.”
“I’m with you there,” rejoined Wyvern. “But here we are, with one six-shooter between us, no rifles or even a shot-gun. How are we going to get scoff?”
“Oh, Hlabulana will take care of that. He has some remarkably efficient assegais.”