“Wait a bit!” replied the black, chuckling.
“Hist! You’ll have the old vrouw hear.”
“No,” said the black confidently; “fast asleep. Wicked old witch! Throw kettle at Kaffir, hot water burn back! Wait a bit; you see!”
Dependent as they were on the man’s guidance through the darkness amongst the enclosures, the fugitives left him to himself for a few moments, wondering what he was about to do.
They soon knew, for he stopped the ponies close to the little window, left their heads, and went close up, to begin fumbling about his spare garments, whence came the chink of the coins he had just received.
“Matches,” he said, and West made out that he took a few from the box he held in his hand, and then reached in at the window, chuckling softly.
“Ingle,” whispered. West, with horror in his voice. “What’s the matter?”
“Do you know what he’s doing?”
“Nobbling a couple of the blankets because he isn’t going to stay for his wages?”
“No; I’m sure he has emptied the match-box on the straw mattress, and is going to burn down the house.”