The lad obeyed sullenly; he was the eldest of the three, and yet not more than twelve; a thickset boy with a heavy, brooding face and fine eyes.
'And what's the meaning of this little performance?' said Mortimer.
Two of the boys had very little knowledge of English, but the eldest had been quick to pick it up from his grandmother and Linda, who had just become his aunt.
'You killed our fathers,' he said doggedly. 'They've taken all the good guns with them, or we wouldn't have missed like this.'
Mortimer had no doubt of it; as it was, the shots had landed so near to the mark that it was plain what was the Boer boys' pastime at present. There was something about the three small lads that reminded Mortimer irresistibly of Roly—Roly, hung all over with the kitchen cutlery, or prowling about the bush with a broken-barrelled gun, Roly lying face downward behind a great ant-bed and picking off his foes at a lightning rate. He found it hard not to smile.
'Hand me up those guns,' he said to the eldest boy.
The boy gave him a stubborn glance, and it needed the discharge of a cartridge over his head to bring him to obedience. Then he handed the poor old musket up sullenly to the conqueror.
'See here,' Mortimer said, 'you'll make fine soldiers by-and-by. Don't go and get yourselves into trouble while you're young, and so ruin your chances. If it had happened to be some one less in a hurry than I am, he'd have marched you over and seen you among the prisoners, just to keep you out of mischief.'
'He'd have to catch us first,' said the boy, with a defiant smile.
'There is such a thing as putting a bullet into the legs,' said Mortimer gravely. 'But now cut along and fetch those Kaffirs for your aunt.'