“But they soon shall!” answered Ingleborough hoarsely.
“No, no, keep quiet,” whispered West; “he’s laughing with them and coming here. Don’t say a word; wait! It’s my advice now.”
“If I can!” muttered Ingleborough. “The skunk! He’s sending the blood dancing through my veins! He must be denounced, and if he begins to say a word about your volunteering to bear the despatch I’ll let him have it hot and strong.”
“Why, you seem to have completely turned your coat!” said West bitterly.
“I have! What we have just been saying has stirred up all my bile. But I wish I could turn your coat too—out of the wagon.”
“Why not?” said West, as a thought occurred to him, and running to the other end of the vehicle, stripping off his jacket as he did so, he thrust out his head and called to the sentry whose duty it was to guard against any attempt to escape.
“What is it?” said the man quietly.
“Take my coat and hang it on the rocks yonder,” he said. “I’ve been sleeping in it night after night, and it’s all fusty and damp. Out yonder, right in the sun.”
The request was so simple and reasonable that the man nodded, took the jacket, and was turning to go away.
“Don’t let anyone meddle with it,” said West; “it’s my only one, and I don’t want a Kaffir to carry it off.”