“Get up! Come!” was whispered in his ear, and he felt the stout cudgel pressed upon his legs. “You, Tant?” he faltered. “Oomps. Jump. Jack come. Jack tief.”
“What!” cried Dyke springing up, half-dressed, as he had lain down.
“Shoo!” whispered the woman. “Bring gun, shoot.”
“You want me to shoot Jack?”
“Oomps. Wagon. Kaffirs take all mealies.”
“You’re a pretty sort of a wife,” thought Dyke, as he caught up his loaded gun from the corner, and wondered that the dog had not stirred.
Just then Tanta Sal touched his arm, pointed to the light, and made a puffing sound with her lips.
“Put it out?” he whispered.
She nodded, and Dyke turned down the wick, so that the place was only lit up by the pale rays of the moon.
“Where are they?” whispered Dyke. “At the wagon?”