Then it was on and on again till a strange feeling of weariness began to oppress them, and they had to fight with the desire which made them bend forward and nod over their ponies’ necks, rising up again with a dislocating start.
At the second time of this performance West made a great effort and began watching his companion, to see that he was just as bad. Then the intense desire to sleep began to master the watcher again.
“Hi, Ingle!” he cried. “Rouse up, and let’s walk for a mile or two.”
“Yes, yes.—What’s that?” cried Ingleborough, springing off his pony and cocking his rifle.
For there was a sudden rushing noise as of a great crowd of animals, of what kind it was still too dark to see; but it was evident that they had come suddenly upon a migratory herd of the graceful-limbed antelopes that had probably been grazing and had been startled into flight.
“Pity it was not light!” said Ingleborough, with a sigh. “We could have got some fresh meat, and then at the first patch of wood and pool of water we could have had a fire and frizzled antelope-steaks.”
But a couple of hours later, when they halted for their rest and refreshment, it was stale cake, hard biltong, and cool fresh water.
“Never mind, we’re miles nearer Mafeking!” said West. “How many more nights will it take?”
The answer to that question had not been arrived at when they dropped asleep, lulled by the sound of rippling water and the crop, crop, crop made by the grazing ponies, and this time their weariness was so great that sleep overcame them both. Ingleborough was to have watched, but nature was too strong, and both slept till sundown, to rise up full of a feeling of self-reproach.