“Or friends’,” replied Ingleborough. “There’s a good deal of chance now, and we must trust a little to our luck.”
“In other words, you mean make a bold dash?”
“Yes, but not a blind one! I want to put a little gumption into what we do! You’ll trust me?”
“I will!”
“Forward then, and give the ponies their heads!”
West gave vent to a deep low “Hah!” of satisfaction, and away they went, with their mounts seeming to exult in the freedom from pressure on their bits, keeping close together, and bounding along over the level veldt as if perfectly familiar with the way, though their riders knew it to be bespread with pitfalls in the shape of the burrows made by the aardvarks and other animals that made the wide open veldt their home.
The moon shone brightly now, though the light was puzzling, and the distance ahead looked strange and weird; but the pace at which they were going had a peculiarly exhilarating effect upon both of the riders, who seemed to share the excitement of their ponies.
For, guesswork though it was, West felt that Mafeking must lie right ahead, and as they dashed on he began to feel a kind of certainty that if left to themselves their sagacious steeds would take them right into the town.
A good four miles must have been passed over in this way, and at last a fresh sensation began to attack West, filling him with anxiety lest they should be going in the wrong direction. For he argued that they must before now, if right, have come upon signs of the besiegers, and he was in the act of leaning over towards Ingleborough to make him acquainted with his fears, when all doubt was chased away by a loud challenge from his right, followed by a flash and a report.
That one shot was the opening note of an overture, for directly after the balls began whistling over their heads, and the first reports grew into a loud rattle followed by the trampling of horses and loud shouting.