“Yes: you couldn’t carry him in.”
“No,” I said, with a sigh. “I’m lame still from the injury to my foot. It hurts me so badly at times that I can hardly ride.”
“Hurrah!” came from the right, and the cheer was taken up from the left, while crack, crack, crack, rifles were being brought well into play.
“What does that mean?” said Denham. “Have they brought down one of the Dutchmen?”
He pressed his horse’s sides and rode out from behind the great stone, while I followed him, to learn directly what was the meaning of the cheering. It was plain enough, for there, about five hundred yards up the narrow pass, was Joeboy coming after us at a quick run, dodging round the great stones, and pretty well contriving to keep them between him and the enemy, whose rifles kept on spitting bullets fiercely after him.
It was as Denham had suggested. Joeboy had leaped down from behind the stone as soon as he had drawn the enemy’s fire, then started to follow us, running the gauntlet of their bullets, and reaching us in a very short time, flushed, triumphant, and very little out of breath.
“Well,” cried Denham, “see the Boers?”
“Um!” replied Joeboy.
“Were there a great many of them?” I said eagerly, as I sat hoping the poor fellow did not give me the credit of forsaking him in a cowardly way.
For answer he held up both hands with fingers and thumbs outspread; dropped them, and raised them once more; and would have kept on for long enough if I had not checked him.