For the sergeant clapped him on the chest, and then placing his shoulder against the stone, he seemed to be exerting all his strength to force it uphill a little, succeeding so well that the next moment Dickenson felt himself slip, glided clear of the sergeant’s legs, and rose to his own, while the man leaped aside and the great block slipped two or three yards before it stopped.
“Then I was caught by the stone?” said Dickenson wonderingly. “I felt it move.”
He felt sure now that he had said those words; but in his confused state, suffering as he was from the shock, he could only wonder why the sergeant should begin feeling him over, and, apparently satisfied that nothing was broken, begin hurrying him along in the direction taken by the retreating force, which, now that the dense cloud of smoke was lifting, he could see steadily marching away in the distance, but with a group of about a dozen lingering behind.
Just then the sergeant stopped, unslung his rifle, placed his helmet on the top, and held it up as high as he could, till Dickenson saw a similar signal made by the party away ahead.
“They know we’re all right,” said Dickenson, still, as it seemed, dumbly: and the sergeant nodded and smiled.
“It was an awful crash. I mean they were terrible crashes, sergeant.”
There was another nod, and after a glance back the sergeant hurried him along a little faster.
“Can you—no, of course you can’t—hear whether the Boers are calling out now?”
The sergeant shook his head.
“Poor wretches!” said Dickenson. “But they were too far off to be hurt.”