“How do you know? I daren’t look, for fear they should see the gleam of my eyes.”
“I could smell him.”
“Scented—out here?”
“Yes; I believe he’d put some scent on his handkerchief and some pomatum on his hair even if he were going to be shot.”
“Hist! Listen,” said West quickly; “they’re on the stir.”
Ingleborough started up, for a voice was heard giving an order, and it was as if a stick had suddenly been thrust into a beehive and stirred round.
“Right!” said Ingleborough, in a low tone. “Now’s our time! Take a long deep breath, and let’s make the plunge. It will be all right if you keep close to me!”
West instinctively drew a long breath without thinking of his companion’s advice, for it was to him like a reflection of old boyish days when he summoned up his courage to take a plunge into deep water while wanting faith in his powers as a swimmer. But it was only the making of the plunge.
Following Ingleborough, he dropped off the end of the wagon, boldly led him to the rifles, and together in the darkness they slipped on the bandoliers, two each, crossbelt-fashion, slung their rifles behind, put on their broad felt hats well down over their eyes, and then, imitating the Boer’s heavy slouching walk, they hurried on through the laager in the direction of the horses.
It was, if possible, darker than ever, and they passed several Boers, quite half of whom were leading horses, and one of them startled and encouraged them by growling out in Dutch: “Now then—look sharp, my lads!”