“Hah!” ejaculated Ingleborough.
“And such a little while ago I was ready to curse fate and the very hour I was born!”
“And very wrong of you too, my son!” said Ingleborough, in tones which betrayed some emotion. “Cursing’s a very bad habit, and only belongs to times when wicked old men lived in old-fashioned plays and indulged in it upon all kinds of occasions, especially when they had sons and daughters who wanted to marry somebody else.”
“Oh, Ingle! Oh, Ingle! The sky doesn’t look so covered with black clouds now.”
“By no means, my lad! I can see enough blue sky to make a Dutchman a pair of breeches—for Dutchman let’s say Boer. I say, what do you say to going out on patrol to-night?”
“Yes, yes, of course! But we have no guns!”
“Nor bandoliers, and that’s a fact! Well, it’s of no use to think of getting our own back again, even if we said we repented and meant to join the Boers at once.”
“They wouldn’t trust us!”
“Too slim! Fools if they did!”
“Then it is hopeless!” said West. “Someone would notice it at once!”