Ingleborough’s hand stole to his rifle, which he grasped, as both held their breath; but he did not attempt to raise it, for the head was thrust inside, and a voice whispered the one word: “Baas.”
“Yes,” said West softly. “What is it, my lad?”
“My baas take pony and ride away. Go to fetch fighting Boer to shoot good baas. You and good baas him.”
“Ah?” said West.
“Iss. Jack put saddles on Basuto ponies; put bridles on Basuto ponies. Good baas both come and ride away. Tant’ Ann never hear nothing. Sleep all night.”
“And if we go what will your baas do to you when he comes and finds the ponies gone?” said West.
“Bad baas never see me again! Going home to my country to-night.”
“Ah, that’s better!” said Ingleborough. “Here, take the two rifles, and we’ll get out here. Jack, my lad, you’re a trump, and you shall have five two-shilling pieces for this, to buy new blankets.”
The Kaffir chuckled and clicked with satisfaction as he stood holding the rifles till Ingleborough slipped out, West pausing to cram the bread cakes and biltong into their satchels, after which he too slipped out, and the trio hurried towards the stables.
“How far has your baas to ride to the fighting Boers?” West asked the Kaffir.