showing the Boers where he lay by firing at every opportunity, religiously keeping his aim for the ponies, in the full belief that before long the Boers would retire.
“It’s no good to play that game!” cried Ingleborough suddenly, and he made a quick movement, turning a little to his right and firing.
There was a hoarse yell, and a man sprang up not above a hundred yards away, dropped his rifle, and turning round he began to stagger away.
“You are firing at the Boers, Ingle,” cried West excitedly.
“Yes: it was time!” growled Ingleborough, through his teeth, with his voice sounding hoarse and strange. “I’ve hit three. Two haven’t moved.”
“What’s the matter?” asked West, in a tone of anxiety, for he felt that something serious had happened to his comrade.
“Don’t talk,” growled Ingleborough angrily. “Look! Those two. Fire!”
Two of the Boers away to West’s left front had suddenly sprung up, and bending low were running towards him, evidently making for a patch of bush, out of which a mass of grey stone peered, not a hundred yards from the young men’s shelter. Feeling now that it was life for life, West glanced along the barrel of his rifle, waiting till the Boers had nearly reached their goal, and then, just as the second dashed close behind his leader, West drew trigger, shivering the next moment, for as the smoke rose he saw one of the men lying upon his face and the other crawling back on all-fours.
“Good shot!” said Ingleborough hoarsely, and then he uttered a deep groan.
“Ingle, old fellow, what is it?” cried West.