“Beg pardon, sir?” said the blackened non-com, staring.
“I say, and you, Colour-Sergeant James,” said the colonel, laying emphasis on the word colour. “You feel that you need not go into the infirmary?”
“Feel, sir?” cried the sergeant, drawing himself up as stiff as his rifle. “Beg pardon, sir, but that’s quite cured me. I never felt so well in my life.”
“I am glad of it, my man,” said the colonel quietly.—“Yes?” he added as one of the junior officers came to the door.
“Two men come in from the kopje, sir: a message from the sergeant with the gun. There’s a strong body of the enemy close up between us and the lines on the slope. The men had to go round a long way before they could get through.”
“I’ll come,” said the colonel, and he hurried out to make some fresh arrangements, the effect of which was that as soon as it was light the action of the Boers was precipitated by a counter-attack, and after an hour’s firing they were driven out of their cover, to run streaming across the veldt, their flight hastened by a few well-planted shells from the big gun and the rapid fire of the Maxim which swept the plain.