“Only the same little cluster as the Boers did, sir. I think it’s ponies grazing.”
He had hardly spoken before there was a hail from the other side of the little wood.
“What is it?” shouted the sergeant.
“Boers coming along fast. I think it’s the same lot coming back. Yes, it must be,” cried the sentry. “I’ve just come across their pot and kettle and things. This must be their camp.”
“Over here,” shouted Dickenson. “Now, sergeant, we must mount and be off, for we shall not have such luck again.”
“No, sir,” said the sergeant gruffly. “Will you help, sir?”
Dickenson’s answer was to hurry to his friend’s side, and in a very short time he was once more on a pony, with the sergeant keeping him in his place; while the others sprang into their saddles and rode off, manoeuvring so as to keep the enemy well on the other side of the woodland clump, and managing so well that they did not even see them for a time, the Boers riding back toward their old bivouac; and for a while there seemed to be no danger.
But it was terribly slow work keeping to a walk. Twice over the pony on which Lennox was mounted was pressed into an amble, but the shaking seemed to distress the injured man, and the walking pace was resumed, till all at once there was ample evidence that they had been seen, a distant crack and puff of smoke following a whistling sound overhead, and directly after the dust was struck up pretty close to one of the ponies’ hoofs.
“The game has begun, sergeant,” said Dickenson calmly.
“Yes, sir. Shall we dismount and give them a taste back?”