“A Kaffir,” replied the sentry. “I’d got a jacket stretched out upon the stones yonder, to get aired in the sunshine, and I only took my eyes off it for a minute, when I saw a foot rise up from behind a stone, grab hold of the coat with its toes—”
“Nonsense!” cried the officer; “a foot could not do that!”
“Not do it?” said the man excitedly. “It had to do it; and it was creeping away, when I fired, and the black sprang up and ran.”
“Where’s the jacket?”
The officer’s question woke an echo in West’s breast, and he started, for it was just as if the question was repeated there, and it seemed to be echoed so loudly that he fancied those near must have heard it.
“He’s got it, I suppose,” said the sentry coolly. “Carried it away, and a bullet too somewhere in his carcass.”
A miserably despondent feeling attacked West at these words, for he had clung to the hope that he might be able to recover the despatch, succeed in escaping and delivering it in safety, however late; while now the desire to get away died out, for how could he return to Kimberley and confess that he had failed?
He turned to glance at Ingleborough, who met his eyes and then shrugged his shoulders as much as to say: “It’s a bad job, and I pity you.”
At that moment a hand was clapped heavily upon West’s shoulder, and the Boer who had saluted him so roughly pointed to the wagon, and he saw that his companion was being treated in the same way, while, the scare being over, upon their walking back and preparing to climb in, they were called upon to stop. Naturally the prisoners obeyed, and, turning, they found the group of Boers in earnest conversation once more with Anson, who at the end of a few minutes nodded decisively and approached his two old fellow-clerks, making West’s heart begin to thump with excitement and his eyes gleam, for the despair he felt at the loss he had sustained made him ready to turn fiercely upon the first enemy who addressed him.
“Take it calmly!” whispered Ingleborough. “Let me diplomatise. You’ll do no good by making a row.”