“No,” said Ingleborough: “the military will deal with him then.”
“How?” asked West, whose veins began to tingle and a cold shuddering sensation to run down his spine.
“A couple of lines of infantry, a volley of musketry, and—”
“Finis,” said the superintendent. “Good day. I don’t wish him any harm; but I feel pretty sure he’ll run straight into some trap. That sort of fellow always does.”
The next minute the door had closed upon the superintendent, and the two young men sat thoughtfully looking in each other’s eyes.
“Only a few hours ago, and we three were calmly working together,” said West sadly; “and I looked upon Anson as an unsatisfactory fellow whom I never could like, but whose worst faults were being a cringing kind of bore and a perfect nuisance with his flute.”
“And I as a smooth hypocrite whom one ought not to trust,” said Ingleborough.
“And now he’s gone, and we’re to have the Boers at us and most likely have to soldier in real earnest. Hallo! Here’s Norton back again.”
For there was a quick step outside, and the door was thrown open. But it was not the superintendent’s face that met their eyes, for their late fellow-clerk stepped boldly in.
“How are you, gentlemen?” he said, with a strong emphasis upon the last word. “So I’ve got the sack; but I’m not going to leave my property behind.”