“All right, Jack! you turn in, and I’ll take the first watch,” answered Wilfred jovially. “I’ll wake you in a couple of hours.”
Accordingly Jack lay down, and, like a hardened campaigner, fell asleep at once. Two hours afterwards Wilfred took his turn, and after a short nap was awakened. Then, saddling their ponies, they turned out of the eucalyptus-trees and started on their long ride.
Before dawn they were securely hidden in a donga, in the midst of a group of small but steep boulder-strewn kopjes, and there, feeling secure from observation, they lay down in their blankets beneath the shade of a huge rock and fell asleep.
When darkness fell again they proceeded on their journey, and a few hours later swam their ponies across the Modder River. It was risky work, but to have attempted to cross by the railway-bridge or at the drift (ford) would have led to certain discovery, for both places were closely watched by the Boers. Instead of that, they had made a wide détour, and crossed at a bend in the river where the stream ran very slowly. Then they turned their faces towards Kimberley, and pressed forward, hoping to reach the beleaguered town an hour or more before daylight.
They were now in a country overrun by Boers, and they therefore rode in silence, with their bayonets fixed and the magazines of their rifles filled, but without a cartridge in the breech, for the accidental pressure on a trigger might easily have betrayed them. Five miles farther on, the flash of the search-light caught their eyes as it slowly swept a broad beam across the veldt surrounding the town.
“Turn to the left—quick!” whispered Jack. “Now get in under this boulder. It would never do to stand out in the open. That light would show us up at once.”
A minute or two later the electric beam had passed by, and they pushed on once more.
“That is Frank Russel’s farm over there,” said Jack, a quarter of an hour later, as a house loomed up on their left. “He is evidently standing by his property, and trusting to the Boers to leave him alone, for you can see the lights in his windows—Hold on a moment, Wilfred! What was that? I thought I heard shouts.”
“Sounds to me like a concert or something of the sort going on,” answered Wilfred, pulling up alongside Jack and listening intently. “Yes, I’m sure of it; there are a lot of fellows singing together.”
“Then they must be Boers, Wilfred! Frank Russel is an oldish man, steady and quiet, and he would never think of entertaining a party of rowdies, especially if they belonged to the enemy. He held a good position at home, but something caused him to come out here with his wife, where he has lived for about twenty years, cattle-ranching and farming. Tom Salter and I have had a cup of tea with him many a time. His wife is dead, and he has a rather pretty daughter, who runs the home for him. I wonder what is going on over there? Frank is loyal to the backbone, and would never think of harbouring one of England’s enemies.”