“I say, Robert,” said Anson, and the superintendent started at the familiar nickname: “I’d look smart over the business, for the Boers have been here lately to water their horses, and if they should by any chance come back it might mean a journey for you and your men to Pretoria.”
“And you too, if they did come,” said the officer surlily.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Anson airily. “I don’t believe they would stop a man with an empty wagon going south on a peaceful journey.”
“They’d take you and your wagon and span, sir,” said the officer sternly.
“Look here, I don’t believe the Boers would behave half so badly to me as my own people have done. But aren’t you going to search?”
“Yes,” said the superintendent sharply. “Your rifle, please.”
Anson unslung it from where it hung in the wagon, and the officer took it, examined the stock and the plate at the end of the butt, to be sure that there were no secret places scooped out of the wood, before he opened the breech and withdrew the ball cartridges, holding the empty barrels up to his eyes.
“That’s right,” cried Anson; “but have a good look round for squalls—I mean Boers. Gun-barrels don’t make half bad things to squint through when you haven’t got a binocular.”
“Bah!” said the superintendent angrily, replacing the cartridges and closing the breech with a snap. “But you have a pair of glasses slung across your shoulder, sir. Have the goodness to pass the case here.”
Anson obeyed willingly enough, giving his slung case up for the rifle that was returned.