“Yes; but a man sitting in the wagon suddenly moved when I was half across, and I was about to spring up, thinking that he was searching for his rifle.”
“Phew!” whistled Ingleborough softly.
“It was well I did not; for directly after, to save getting up and opening his lantern, the Boer struck a match, and as I lay perfectly still, fully expecting to be shot, the whole place seemed to be lit up, and instead of hearing a rifle cocked I smelt a whiff of strong coarse tobacco, and I felt that I was safe.”
“Go on and get it over!” whispered Ingleborough. “You are making my hands feel wet.”
“I lay some time before I dared to move.”
“That you didn’t, for you weren’t gone long.”
“Well, it seemed an hour to me: and then I crept on and out of the light into the black darkness again, rose to my hands and knees, wondering whether I was going right, and the next minute my hand rubbed softly against a wagon-wheel, and I knew I was right.”
“Bravo!” whispered Ingleborough.
“I rose up directly, and began to feel about carefully for the tilt, and once more my heart seemed to rise to my mouth, for from under the wagon there came a dull deep snoring, and I felt it was impossible to do more for fear of being heard.”
“But you made a dash for it?”