“Dead cert.”
Elvesdon felt immeasurably relieved. Now, more than ever; now that he was separated from her; might never even see her again; he realised what Edala had become to him. She had fascinated him from the very first, and of late had become part of his life. But it would not do to give way to depression. If Thornhill, who knew these people better than he did, had no anxiety about his daughter’s ultimate safety, why surely he himself need have none.
“You see, this hasn’t come to anything as yet,” went on Thornhill, “whatever it’s going to do. Now they know that to interfere with white women in any way would be to bring about a general bust-up, which as yet, they’re probably not ready for. But likely enough they’ve got wind that there’s an idea of arresting some of the chiefs, and are holding us as sort of hostages. Have you any notion that there’s any such idea on foot?”
“I’ve heard nothing about it officially or in any other capacity. But if such a programme is on the boards we shall get our throats cut if it’s carried out. Is that the meaning?”
The other nodded.
“Well Parry,” went on Elvesdon, cheerfully, “you wanted to see the war-dance but you didn’t bargain for this, eh? I suppose you’ve read about this sort of situation too.”
“Often, sir. But people always manage somehow to get out of it I notice.”
“And so shall we.”
Cheered by the optimistic demeanour of his official superior, and the no less calm one of his other companion in adversity the young Police trooper began to enjoy the situation. What would his people at home say if they could see him now, a prisoner in the hands of armed savages?
It was no end exciting; for of course they would manage to escape. As he had said, people always did—in books. Poor boy!