“Can’t say I do, sir. I wish I did.”
“Why, hang it, man! it’s simple enough. Here’s the coppice, and Groenfontein must lie—”
Dickenson stopped short and gave his ear a rub, full of vexation.
“Yes, sir, that’s it,” said the sergeant dryly; “this is the patch of wood, but which side of it we’re looking at, or trying to look at, I don’t know for the life of me. It seems to me that we’re just as likely to strike off straight for the Boers’ laager as for home. I don’t know how you see it, sir.”
“See, man!” cried Dickenson angrily. “It’s of no use; I only wish I could see. We can do nothing. I was thinking that we had only to skirt round this place, and then face to our left and go straight on, and we should soon reach home.”
“Yes, sir; I thought something of that sort at first, but I don’t now. May I say a word, sir?”
“Yes; go on. I should be glad if you would.”
“Well, sir, it’s like this; whenever one’s in the dark one’s pretty well sure to go wrong, for there’s only one right way to about fifty that are not.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Then won’t it be best to wait till the day begins to show in the east, and rest and graze the ponies for a bit? Better for Mr Lennox too.”