“Well, rather. I’ll tell you presently. Have you a boy handy, Foster? I want to send a note quick to Orwell.”
On a half-sheet of notepaper he wrote hurriedly—laconically—
“Farm attacked by Matabele, and blown up. Peters, Ancram, and self escaped—have just come in. Went to warn Tewson, found whole family massacred. Saw impi this morning, heading as though towards Kezane Store. Warn Isard, and take precautions.
“Lamont.”
This he folded and addressed to the Resident Magistrate, and the boy was started off at once.
“I’ve a bit of good news for you, Mr Lamont,” said Foster, as the latter returned—tubbed, and to that extent refreshed—to begin upon the much needed food. “That rooi-schimmel horse you left with Greene the day you were in for the race meeting—well, he’s all right again now. Greene brought him in couple of days back, and there isn’t an atom of lameness about him.”
“That’s good news indeed, for it strikes me there’s plenty of work sticking out for him.”
They had just finished breakfast, and were enjoying the luxury of an excellent cigar when Orwell arrived. He was in a great state of excitement, and glanced meaningly in the direction of Foster, but this the hotel-keeper pretended not to see. He was all on thorns to hear the news himself, for that news there was—great and grave—he felt sure.
“Is this a fact, Lamont?” began Orwell, producing the slip of paper. “Good Lord, man, but the whole country must be in a blaze!”
“So it must. By the way, Orwell, of course you’ve got that laager all fixed up by this time.”
“Er, well—no—the fact is we have been planning it out, and—er—”