“Tell me about the grain,” persisted Lennox.
“Oh, very well; we’re going on eating it, for if it hadn’t turned up as it did we should have been obliged to surrender or cut our way through.”
“But there’s plenty yet?”
“Oh yes, heaps; and we got about thirty sheep two days ago.”
“Capital,” said Lennox, rubbing his hands softly. “Now tell me—where is the grain stored?”
“Where the niggers put it when they collected it there.”
“Not moved?”
“No. It couldn’t be in a better place—a worse, I mean. Bother the cave! I wish you wouldn’t keep on thinking about it.”
“Very well, I won’t. Tell me about the prisoners.”
“Ah, that’s better. The brutes! But there’s nothing to tell about them. I wish they had got their deserts, but we none of us wanted to shoot them, though they did deserve it.”