“Yes, and we’re lucky to get that and a few sacks.”
Just then the Boer came slowly sidling up, smoking hard the while, to know if they had seen anything of the war, and he seemed deeply interested on hearing that a skirmish had been going on not so many miles from his farm.
“Why are you two not fighting?” he said suddenly.
“Because we don’t want to,” was West’s smiling reply.
“But you are Englanders?” said the Boer.
“Yes, but all Englanders don’t want to fight,” said West, while Ingleborough looked on, quite unmoved.
“Oh, don’t tell, me!” said the Boer, shaking his head. “They all want to fight and kill the Boers before robbing them of their homes and farms. Don’t tell me—I know!”
He walked away to where the Kaffir was seeing to the horses, and West noticed that he took a good deal of notice of them, glanced two or three times in the direction of his visitors, and then ran his hands down their legs in a most professional way, narrowly escaping a kick from West’s steed, before he walked thoughtfully back to his rough—looking house, into which he was careful not to allow his guests to enter.
“We’re to share the stable with the nags,” said Ingleborough; “but it doesn’t matter. Let’s go and see how they are getting on,” he continued, as the Boer disappeared indoors. “We can’t afford to have them fed on some of his lordship’s refuse. I know something of the tricks of these gentlemen of old.”
They entered the rough stable, where the big Kaffir was standing on one side and greeted them with a heavy scowl.