“Well, we are what he has; and, judging from the way we are shut in and left by the authorities, he is not likely to get a fresh supply if he loses us.”
“What about the messengers he has sent, Bracy? Think they get through with the despatches? I feel sure they do not. Either they are killed or so scared by the dangers they run that they destroy their despatches and dare not show their faces again.”
“Well, I hope that’s not the case,” said Bracy. “I don’t want to give the poor fellows the credit of being treacherous.”
“Like enough it is that, treacherous as we deem it; but they are so much accustomed to the tricks and cunning amongst which they have been brought up that they look upon such a thing as being very venial—a kind of cleverness by which we, their conquerors are bested.”
“Here, I say, don’t get into a dissertation upon the moral character of the natives,” cried Drummond, “because there is no end to that. Here, I say—”
“Say away,” said the others.
“I’ve been thinking about what old Graves said as to the shikarees selling us to the enemy. They won’t.”
“I hope not,” said Bracy, laying his hand upon his chest.
“Hullo! What’s the matter? Wound hurt?”
“Gives me a stab like that sometimes when the weather is going to change. We shall have rain, I think.”