But Ingleborough was a strong man, and he proved it, for, stepping behind the man, he caught him by the collar of his jacket and the loose part of his knicker-bocker-like breeches, and dragged him off the wagon, to plant him down in front of West.
The result was that their prisoner began to rage out abusive words in Dutch, so loudly that in the exasperation he felt, Ingleborough raised his right foot and delivered four kicks with appalling vigour and rapidity—appalling to the receiver, who uttered a series of yells for help in sound honest English, struggling the while to escape, but with his progress barred by West, who closed up and seized him by the arm.
The outcry had its effect, for the called-for help arrived, in the shape of a sergeant and half-a-dozen men, who came up at the double with fixed bayonets.
“What’s all this?” cried the sergeant sharply, as he surrounded the party.
“Only a miracle!” cried Ingleborough. “This so-called Boer, who could not speak a word of English, has found his tongue.”
“What are you, prisoner—a Boer?” cried the sergeant.
“Ah, yah, yah,” was the reply, gutturally given; “Piet Retif, Boer.”
“Well, sir, orders are that the Boer prisoners are not to be ill-used,” said the sergeant. Then, turning to the prisoner: “This your wagon and span?”
“Ah, yah, yah, Piet Retif.”
“He says Yah, yah, sir,” said the sergeant, “which means it is his wagon.”