Crack! crack! crack! crack! rang out half-a-dozen rifles, and Lennox, who as the consequence of his spring was lying right across his comrade, rolled off him.
“Hurt?” panted the latter in agonised tones.
“No. Now then, crawl after me.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Creep up level with your rifle, and cover you while you get it.”
“Is it any use, old fellow? There’s about fifty of them over yonder.”
“I don’t care if there are five hundred,” growled Lennox through his teeth. “Come along; we must keep it up till help comes from the laager.”
“Then you mean to fight?” panted Dickenson as he crawled after his leader; while the Boers from the other side kept up a dropping fire right into and up the gully, evidently under the impression that the two officers were making that their line of retreat instead of creeping under cover of the bushes at the foot of the cliff-like bank, till Drew stopped opposite where the abandoned rifle lay upon the stone Dickenson had left, so far unseen.
Where they stopped the bushes were shorter and thinner, and they had a good view of the enemy, who had taken cover close to the edge of their bank and were keeping up a steady fire, sending their bullets searching the dense growth of the ravine, while about a dozen mounted men now appeared, cantering along towards where there was a ford about a mile lower down.
“That’s to surround us, old man,” said Dickenson. “The miserable liars! There isn’t a man this side. But oh, my chest! You’ve knocked in some of my ribs.”