“Think so?” was the cool reply, as foot after foot of the line was drawn in. “I was beginning to be of the opinion that he had given it up as a bad job and was swimming right in to surrender.”
“No; I told you so. You’ve dragged the hook right out the fish’s jaws, and—Oh, I’m blessed!”
“With a good opinion of yourself, Bobby,” said Drew, laughing; for after softly hauling in about eight or ten yards of the stout water-cord he felt the fish again, when it gave one smart tug at the line and dashed up past the stone, running out all that had been recovered in a very few seconds.
Directly after there was a check and a jerk at the officer’s hand, while a cry escaped his lips as he let the line go and stooped to pick up his rifle.
“That’s no good,” began Dickenson.
“Quick, man! Down with you!—Ah! you’ve left your rifle. Cover!”
“Oh!” ejaculated Dickenson; and his jaw dropped, and he stood motionless, staring across the river at the sight before him on the other bank.
“Hands up! Surrender! You’re surrounded!” shouted a rough voice. “Drop that rifle, or we fire.”
Drew Lennox was bent nearly double in the act of raising it as these words were uttered, and he saw before him some twenty or thirty barrels, whose holders had covered him, and apparently only awaited another movement on the young officer’s part to shoot him down as they would have done a springbok.
“Oh dear!” groaned Dickenson; “to come to this!” And he was in the act of raising his hands in token of surrender when his comrade’s head caught him full in the chest and drove him back among the bushes which grew densely at the mouth of the gully.