“Nonsense!”
Crack! went a match by way of endorsement of West’s words, and the next moment the little flame began to burn inside the Kaffir’s hands, lighting up his exulting countenance as he waited till the splint of wood was well alight.
“What are you going to do?” said West hoarsely, as he leaned forward and laid his right hand upon the black’s shoulder.
“Don’t shake light out!” was the answer. “Olebo going make big fire, roast Tant’ Ann! Big fat witch, soon burn!”
As the Kaffir finished he lowered one hand, leaving the match blazing brightly, and he was in the act of leaning in to apply it to the little heap of matches he had placed upon the loose straw mattress, when a sharp snatch at his shoulder jerked him back, and the burning splint dropped to the ground.
“Ah–h–ah!” growled the man savagely, and he drew another match across the box he still held.
“None of that!” growled Ingleborough sternly.
“Wicked old witch!” said the black, in remonstrance. “Burn Olebo! Don’t give him enough to eat! No good!”
“You come along,” cried West. “I can hear the Boers coming fast. Now then, lead the horses clear of the pens!”