The sergeant was off his pony in a moment, handing the reins to a companion, and helping the lost man to rise.
“Are you all right?” said Dickenson excitedly as he reached down, felt for, and firmly grasped his friend’s wet, cold hand.
“All right?” said Lennox bitterly. “Well, as all right as a man can be who was about to lie down utterly exhausted, when he heard your pony.”
“But are you wounded?”
“No; only been nearly strangled and torn to pieces. But don’t ask me questions. Water!” A water-bottle was handed to the poor fellow, and they heard him drink with avidity. Then ceasing for a short space, he said, “I was just going to lie down and give it up, for I was completely lost.” He began drinking again, and then, with a deep breath of relief: “Whose is this?”
“Mine, sir,” said the sergeant, and he took the bottle from the trembling outstretched hand which offered it.
“Thankye, sergeant,” sighed the exhausted man. “It does one good to hear your voice again. Are we far from Groenfontein?”
“About three miles,” said Dickenson.
“Ah!” said Lennox, with a groan. “Then I can’t do it.”
“Yes, you can,” said Dickenson warmly. “Here, hold on by the nag’s mane while I dismount. We’ll get you into the saddle, and walk the pony home.”