Chapter Seventeen.
Bad Shillings always come back.
West stepped to his companion’s side, looked out between the rough curtains of the wagon, and saw a group of mounted Boers surrounding a freshly-arrived wagon with its long team of bullocks, the black voorlooper at the head and the driver with his enormous whip on the box.
“Well,” said West, after a sharp glance, “there’s a fresh load of provisions, I suppose! What of it?”
“Rub your eyes, lad, and look again.”
“They don’t want rubbing.”
“Well, of all the fellows! Look there, beyond those mounted men who escorted the wagon in—there where the commandant and the dismounted party are talking together.”
“Yes, I see where you mean; but what has it to do with us? I don’t—yes, I do. Why, it’s Anson!” cried West excitedly.