“But, Sergeant, you were telling me about Joeboy,” I said. “Can’t you think when you saw him last?”
“Not exactly. I’ve been trying to think it out, because I expected you’d be asking about him. It strikes me that the last I saw of him was the night I was going the rounds after the search for that Irish prisoner. Perhaps he’s tired of being shut up?”
“No,” I said emphatically.
“Those blacks are men who are very fond of running wild.”
“Joeboy wouldn’t forsake me, Sergeant,” I said impressively.
“Perhaps you’re right. He always did seem very fond of you—never happy unless he was at your heels; but he hasn’t been hanging about the hospital, you see. It looks like as if that Irishman had given him a crack on the head too, and pitched him down one of the mine-holes.”
“Oh no; horrible!” I said.
“Glad you take it that way,” said Briggs grimly, “because it would be bad for the water. Well, there’s only two other things I can think of just now. One’s that he might have been shot by the enemy when driving in the cattle.”
“Is it possible?” I said, in alarm.
“Well, yes, it’s possible,” said the Sergeant; “but I didn’t hear any one hint at such a thing happening.”