“Sure of what?” he said, growing excited in turn on hearing the elation in my voice.
“Wagons!” I cried.
“Ah, would you?” he shouted. “Didn’t I say that if you spoke of wagons again—”
“One—two—three—four—five—six!” I cried, with the glasses to my eyes. “Hurrah! There’s a fresh lot coming into camp, right into that opening you saw. Be quiet and let me watch”—for Denham had given me such a slap between the shoulders that I nearly dropped the glass.
“Say it again, old man—say it again.”
“There’s no need,” I replied. “Yes, I can make them out quite plainly—six wagons, with their long teams of oxen and black drivers and forelopers. You can see the black bodies and white cloths.”
“I don’t want to see them,” cried Denham wildly. “I’ll take your word. Six teams of oxen!—that’s all beef. Six wagons!—that means bread. There, you be off and tell the Colonel you’re going to start; and I’ll see about the troop that’s to follow and bring you in. I say, pick out a wagon of meal; not one of mealies. I don’t know, though. Couldn’t you bring both?”
“There’s plenty of time,” I said.
“Time? The Colonel ought to know by now. Here, give me that glass.”
“Be quiet,” I said, angry with excitement. “I want to watch and make sure where the wagons are drawn up.”