“What are you, then?”
“Making a mistake, it seems,” he replied.
“But your people are Boers?”
“They’re going to beat them,” he replied, “as soon as they get a chance. Have you seen them up the Nek yonder?”
“Yes; I was running away from them. They were shooting at us last night.”
“Hi; Robsy! Steady there!” roared my new acquaintance. “Steady, I say! Friends.—You, Black Jack, put down that spear, or it’ll be the worse for you.—It’s all right, sir,” he continued as a grey-haired, military-looking man now rode up, followed by half-a-dozen more. “This is an Englishman running away from the Boers.”
“Then he’s not an Englishman,” said the officer sharply. “Here, arrest this man.—Now then, give an account of yourself, for you look confoundedly like a spy. Here, some one, cut that black fellow down if he resists.”
“Be quiet, Joeboy,” I cried; “these are friends.”
Joeboy dropped into a peaceable attitude and stood scowling at the horsemen who surrounded us.
“Now, sir,” said the officer, “why don’t you speak?”