“Get out!” he cried. “You would never have got Aunt Georgie upon a horse.”
“Can’t you be serious for a minute,” cried Norman, angrily. “Don’t you see that our last chance has gone?”
“No,” said Rifle, sturdily. “Not a bit of it. We’ve only been firing duck and swan shot so far. Now, I’m going to ask father if we hadn’t better fire ball. Come on. Don’t grump over a few horses. We don’t want to ride away and be hunted for days by black fellows.”
“Where are you going?”
“To get in that sheep while we can. Perhaps to-morrow they’ll be driven farther away.”
Norman nodded, and looked hard at his brother, for he could not help admiring his sturdy courage.
“We’re going now, father,” cried Rifle.
“Well, take care. Creep along by the fence, keeping it between you and the scrub there. Get round the sheep, and drive all before you till they are close in here. Then pounce upon two and hold on. We’ll come and help you.”
The task looked risky, for the sheep were a couple of hundred yards away, and it was felt that the blacks were in the scrub. But they had not shown themselves, and might be a sleep, or so far away that the bold dash made by the boys would be unseen. But all the same the captain and Uncle Jack covered their advance, ready with loaded guns to protect the boys should the blacks make any sign.
The arrangement seemed to be unnecessary, for the two lads, carrying their pieces at the trail, reached the fence, under whose cover they went out quite a hundred yards. Then halting and carefully scanning the nearest patch of scrub, they rose and walked fast, partly away from the sheep, so as to be well beyond them before they turned to their left, got behind, and drove them gently toward the house.