“Cheer? No,” said Dickenson excitedly. “Look here, sergeant; I’m a bit crippled, but I’ll have him in front of me.”
“But he’s on my pony now, sir, with the lads holding him. Had we better drag him down again? He’s precious limp, sir; and I’m afraid he’s hurt worse than he said.”
“Very well; keep as you are,” said Dickenson hurriedly; and, almost unseen, the sergeant mounted behind his charge and began to feel about him for the best way of making the poor fellow as comfortable as possible.
“He’s got his sword all right, sir, but his revolver’s gone. Stop a moment,” continued the sergeant, fumbling in the darkness; “there’s the lanyard, but his hat’s gone too. There, I’ve got him nicely now. Mount, my lads.”
There was a rustling sound as the men sprang into their saddles again.
“Ready?” said Dickenson.
“Yes, sir.”
“Stop a moment. How are we to find our way back?”
“We shall have to trust to the ponies, sir,” said the sergeant. “Let’s see; we have turned their heads round over this job. We must leave it to them; they’ll find their way back, thinking they’re going to get some more mealies. Trust them for that.”
“Forward at a walk!” said Dickenson. “Tut, tut, sergeant! It’s as black as pitch. If a breeze would only spring up.”