“Armoured train won’t work, sir, without filling up the furnace,” said the sergeant sternly; “and the ponies are not quite ready.”
“You promised to have them ready, sergeant.”
“So I did, sir; but we want all we can out of them to-night. We may have to ride for our lives; so I managed to beg a feed of mealies apiece for them. There’s a snack of hot meat ready in the mess hut, sir, and the colonel would like to see you before you start.”
“Yes,” said Dickenson, finishing buckling on his sword, and slipping the lanyard cord of his revolver about his neck.
He hurried then to the mess-room, where a piece of well-broiled steak, freshly cut from one of the oxen, was brought by the cook, emitting an aroma agreeable enough; but it did not tempt the young officer, whose one idea was to mount and ride away for the kopje. Certainly it was not only like fresh meat—very tough—but it possessed the toughness of years piled-up by an ox whose life had been passed helping to drag a tow-rope on trek. So half of it was left, and the young man sought the colonel’s quarters.
“Ha!” he said. “Ready to start, then?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, I must leave all to your discretion, Dickenson,” he said. “Recollect you promised me that if there was any sign of the kopje being still occupied you would stop at once and return.”
“Yes; I have not forgotten, sir.”
“That’s enough, then. Keep your eyes well open for danger. I’d give anything to recover Lennox, but I cannot afford to give the lives of more of my men.”