“Very well, sir; then there really is nothing we can do but trust to the ponies. They somehow seem to see in the dark.”
“Forward, then!”
At the end of another half-hour they drew rein again, and almost precisely the same conversation took place, with the exception that Dickenson declared at the end that they must have lost their way.
“Well, sir,” replied the sergeant dryly, “it’s hardly fair to say that, sir.”
“What do you mean?” said Dickenson tartly.
“Begging your pardon, sir, one can’t lose what we’ve never had. It’s been a regular game of Blindman’s buff to me, sir, ever since we left the last post.”
Dickenson was silent, for he felt that he had nothing to say but “Forward!” so he said that, and the ponies moved on again.
“We must be going wrong, sergeant,” said Dickenson at last. “We have left Groenfontein to the right.”
“No, sir; I think not,” replied the man. “If we had, we should have broken our shins against the big kopje and been challenged by our men.”
“Then we’ve passed it to the left.”