“You, sir?” cried Ingleborough excitedly. “Why, of course; I heard that you were, and forgot in all the bustle and excitement of the coming siege. Then you can let us have two? The Commandant will give an order for the payment.”
“Hang the Commandant’s payments!” cried the director testily. “When young fellows like you are ready to give their lives in the Queen’s service, do you think men like we are can’t afford to mount them? Come along with me, and you shall have the pick of the sturdy cob ponies I have. They’re rough, and almost unbroken—what sort of horsemen are you?”
“Very bad, sir,” replied Ingleborough: “no style at all. We ride astride though.”
“Well, so I suppose,” said the director, laughing, “and with your faces to the nag’s head. If you tell me you look towards the tail I shall not believe you. But seriously, can you stick on a horse tightly when at full gallop?”
“Oliver West can, sir,” replied Ingleborough. “He’s a regular centaur foal.”
“Nonsense! Don’t flatter,” cried West. “I can ride a bit, sir; but Ingleborough rides as if he were part of a horse. He’s accustomed to taking long rides across the veldt every morning.”
“Oh, we can ride, sir,” said Ingleborough coolly; “but whether we can ride well enough to distance the Boers has to be proved.”
“I’ll mount you, my boys, on such a pair of ponies as the Boers haven’t amongst them,” said the director warmly. “Do you know my stables—the rough ones and enclosure I have had made?”
“We heard something about the new stabling near the mine, sir,” said West; “but we’ve been too busy to pay much heed.”
“Come and pay heed now, then.”