“Serve ’em right, sir, for using such nasty, common, dangerous paraffin. Here comes the wind, sir: what did I say?”
For the soft breeze came with a heavier puff, which made the forked tongues of flame plunging up amongst the thick smoke begin to roar, and in a very few seconds the fire was rushing through one of the tilted wagons as if it were a huge horizontal chimney.
“Did you get singed, sergeant?”
“No, sir. It just felt a bit hot. Hullo! what’s that?”
For a horrible shrieking and yelling arose from the direction of the wounded Boers.
“The crippled men,” said Dickenson. “They’re afraid they are going to be burned to death. We ought to go and shout to them that there’s nothing to fear.”
“Yes, sir, it would be nice and kind,” cried the sergeant sarcastically; “only if we tried they wouldn’t let us—they’d shoot us down before we were half-way there.”
“Yes, I’m afraid so,” said Dickenson, who stared almost in wonder at the terrific rate at which the fire was roaring up and sweeping along, threatening, as wagon after wagon caught, to cover the kopje with flame.
“Perhaps, sir,” said the sergeant, with a grim smile, “it would be a comfort to the poor fellows’ nerves if we sent up the ammunition-wagons now.”
“Whether it would or not, sergeant, we must be sharp and do it, or with these flakes of fire floating about we shall not dare to go near our fuse.”