“I hope you are right!” said West. “And there, I will not mourn for them, as you call it, any more, but make the best of things. Let’s see; this is the sixth day out from Mafeking.”
“Seventh,” said Ingleborough correctively.
“Of course; so it is, but I lose count through being so intent upon the one idea of getting back to Kimberley. Do you think we shall manage to get through the Boer lines?”
“Think? Why, we’ve got to get through them. We shouldn’t be long if we could only ride straight away, and not be always running right on to some fresh party who begin to make game of us directly.”
“That’s rather an ambiguous way of speaking, Ingle,” said West, laughing, as he caressed his pony. “If anybody else heard you he would think you meant that the Boers bantered and chaffed us.”
“But nobody else does hear us, and you think that I mean that they begin to pump out bullets at us just as if we were a pair of springboks. I say, I’m beginning to think that we are leading a charmed life, for it is wonderful what escapes we have had from their long-carrying rifles.”
“I’m beginning to think in a much more matter-of-fact way,” replied West; “and I think this, that five hundred yards’ range is quite long enough for any rifle used on active service. I know that when one takes aim beyond that distance one is very doubtful of hitting.”
“I feel so after half that distance,” replied Ingleborough, and then: “Hullo! See something?”
“Yes; I thought we were going to have a good long ride in peace this morning, but look yonder!”
The two young men drew rein and leaped to the ground, each hurriedly getting out his glass, for the commandant at Mafeking had supplied them with fresh ones, to steady it by resting it upon the saddle he had just quitted, their well-trained ponies standing perfectly motionless.