“Well, it seems to me,” replied Jack, “that that is just the kind of thing they would search. I have been thinking about it as I came along, and believe that a far safer place will be in the case of my Mauser pistol. Here it is, under my arm, and it has already escaped detection.”
“Splendid! Of course that will be far and away the best place,” exclaimed the officer. “And now, in case the Boers should capture you, here is a letter stating that you are a despatch-rider acting for the British. Without that they would probably shoot you as a spy. Now you can start as soon as you like. If you reach Mafeking in safety, tell the boys there that all goes swimmingly with us, and we hope it is the same with them. Well, good-bye, Somerton, and the best of luck go with you!”
They shook hands, and Jack clattered downstairs and into the street, where he found a shaggy-looking horse waiting for him. In a moment he had vaulted lightly into the saddle, and was riding away towards the nearest gate which lay to the east. He had chosen this purposely, for had the Boers obtained an inkling of the direction in which he was to ride, the telegraph wire which was at their service between the two beleaguered towns would have warned all the burghers to look out for him. At the gate he was challenged, and on giving a special pass-word, which he had been instructed to use, a lamp was flashed for a moment on his face, and he was allowed to proceed.
“Good luck to yer, mate!” said the sentry who had received the countersign. “Give our best respects to the chaps up north, and tell them we’re having a fine time down this way. Ta, ta, old horse! Mind the palings as you go out; they are a bit inclined to scratch yer.”
“So long, Joey!” laughed Jack cheerfully, recognising the sentry as one of the volunteers he had met the night before.
Cantering on he carefully avoided the high fence of barbed wire, and, riding through an opening in it, was almost immediately challenged by a picket, and was compelled to pull up suddenly, to find a couple of bayonets pointed at his chest.
“Gently, boys!” he called out in a low voice. “You’ll be sticking those things through me next time. I’m Jack Somerton, and ‘Buller’ is the pass-word.”
“Right; ‘Buller’ it is,” was the answer. “Pass on, Jack, and go easy when you get half a mile away; there’s a lot of our dear Boer friends prowling about over there.”
Jack thanked the man for his advice, and cantered on again. Then he pulled up, dismounted, and led his pony along over the grass, pausing every now and again to listen and search the darkness in all directions. At this moment the search-light from the town was suddenly turned on, and passing well above his head was flashed across the veldt in front of him, and then all round till it fell upon the same spot again.
Jack stopped where he was and followed it carefully with his eyes. Again it flashed round the town, and then was suddenly cut off, leaving everything in absolute darkness. Springing on his pony, Jack touched it with his spurs and galloped ahead, and did not draw rein again till he had ridden a good five miles. Then he dismounted for a few minutes, and having allowed the animal sufficient time to rest, jogged on at a gentle canter, the most comfortable pace at which to cover a long distance. There was no difficulty about keeping in the right direction, for his rides with Tom Salter had taught him how to make use of the stars as guides, so that he went on for several hours with a short halt here and there, and by three in the morning found himself well on the way to Vryburg, and only a few miles to the west of the railway.