“Why, it’s light! Here, where am I?”
But it was directly after the Boer leader had shouted the order to advance, and the little body of active Bechuana ponies sprang forward, eager to begin cantering over the plain, not a man the worse for his narrow escape, as they burst out chatting together, Lennox’s exclamation passing quite unnoticed, even if heard.
“Ha!” ejaculated Dickenson, exhaling his long-pent-up breath. “I doubt if any of them will be nearer their end again during the war.”
And then, after making sure that the Boer party were going off at a sharp canter, and that the risk of speaking or being seen was at an end, he crawled quickly to where Lennox lay upon his back, his eyes once more closed, and sleeping as soundly as if he had never roused up into consciousness since early in the night.
“Lennox—Drew,” whispered Dickenson, catching him by the arm, but only eliciting a low, incoherent muttering. “Well, you can sleep!”
“It’s not quite natural, sir,” said the sergeant. “He must have been hurt somewhere, and the sooner the doctor has a look at him the better.”
“Yes,” said Dickenson thoughtfully.—“That was a close shave, sergeant.”
“Yes, sir—for the enemy. If we had fired they’d have gone off like frightened sheep, I feel sure now.”
“Yes, I think so too. But we must not stir yet.”
“No, sir; I’d give those fellows time to get out of sight. We don’t want them to see us. If they did, they’d come swooping down to try and cut us off. What do you say to trying if we can make out what’s wrong with Mr Lennox? I think he must have been hit in the head.”