“Of course! Why, there was the night when they were bringing up the big gun. They must have had guides.”
“Oh, if you come to that, they may have people with them who used to live here.”
“Yes, they may have,” said Dickenson; “but it isn’t likely. Depend upon it, there are two or three Kaffirs somewhere about here, and we have them to thank for some of our misfortunes. If we do catch them they’ll have it pretty sharp.”
“Not they,” said Lennox. “We shall treat them as prisoners of war.”
“As spies,” said Dickenson, “and you know their lot.”
“Psh! The colonel would not shoot a set of poor ignorant blacks.”
“Browns—browns, browns.”
“For a reward they’d fight for us just as they may have been fighting for the Boers.”
“But we don’t want them to fight for us. If they’d try and feed us they’d be doing some good.—Yes, all right. Ahoy there!” shouted the speaker, for a hail came from higher up. “Forward, my lads; forward!”
This last to the men on either side, who had snapped at the chance of a few minutes’ rest, after the fashion displayed by their officers.