“Exactly!” replied Anson, apparently without noticing the sarcasm; “and I’ve been thinking that no doubt I could put a good thing in both your ways. Of course, we have been bad enough friends; but I’ll pass over all that if you’ll serve me as faithfully as you did the company. What do you say?”
“Say?” cried West.
“Stop! Hold hard, Oliver!” cried Ingleborough, stopping him short; “this is a thing that can’t be settled in a minute. We want time. All I say now, Mr Anson, is that I’m glad we bear such a good character, seeing that we are illicit-diamond-dealers escaping with the plunder that we haven’t got.”
“Exactly!” said Anson. “Very well, then, I’ll give you till to-morrow night to think it over, and you’ll soon see which side your bread’s buttered.”
“Don’t stop me, Ingle,” said West hotly. “I can’t stand this. I must speak. This—”
A sharp report from behind the wagon checked further words, and every man made a rush for this place or that in full expectation that a sudden attack had been made upon the laager within the rocky walls.
At the same moment a Kaffir of the blackest type and with his hair greased up into the familiar Zulu ring bounded into sight, tripped, fell upon his hands, sprang up again, ran on, and disappeared, whilst a rush was made for the man who fired, leaving Anson and the prisoners together.
The next minute West’s blood felt as if it was running cold in his veins as he saw, only a few yards from him and close to the stone upon which his jacket had been stretched, the sentry slowly re-loading his pistol. But the coat was gone.
West had hard work to repress a groan. “My orders were to fire at anyone I saw stealing,” said the man surlily, and West heard every word.
“Well, who was stealing?” asked one of the officers.