It was very bright and breezy up there; but Denham did not seem disposed to sit down quietly and rest in the sun, for he stepped up at once to where he could gaze over the breastwork, resting his elbows on the stones and his chin upon his hands.
“Hi, Denham! don’t do that,” I said. “It’s not safe.”
“Bah! I want to look out for those ammunition-wagons old Briggs was talking about.”
“But—” I began, and then I was silent, for Joeboy had followed us up, and seeing Denham’s perilous position, he stepped up behind him, put his hands to his waist, and lifted him down as if he had been a child.
“How dare— Oh, it’s you, Blackie,” he said, laughing.
It was a strange laugh, and I could see that the poor fellow had a peculiar look in his eyes. For as Joeboy snatched more than lifted him down, ping, whiz, the humming of two bullets went so close to his head on either side that he winced twice—to right and to left; and crack, crack came the reports of the rifles fired from the Boer lines opposite.
“Doppie want to shoot Boss Denham,” said Joeboy coolly. “Shoot straight.”
“Yes, they shoot straight,” said Denham; “but I didn’t think— I don’t know, though; perhaps I did think. I say, Val,” he added in a strange, inconsequent way, as if rather ashamed of his recklessness, “that was rather near—wasn’t it?”
“Why do you act like that?” I said reproachfully.
“I suppose it was out of bravado,” he replied, seeming to return to his old manner again. “I wanted to show the brutes the contempt I feel for them.”