“Oh, it’s as you think best, sir,” he said at last; “but I wouldn’t give up. We don’t want to. All we’re thinking about is giving the enemy another sickening for what they’ve done.”
Dickenson crawled away to the other man—away to his right—to find him literally glowering when spoken to.
“What do the others say, sir—the sergeant and my comrade?”
“Never mind them,” replied Dickenson. “I want to know how you feel.”
“Well, sir,” was the reply, “about an hour ago I felt regular sick of it, and that it would be about like throwing our lives away to hold out.”
“That it would be better to surrender and chance our fate in a Boer prison?”
“Something of that sort, sir.”
“And how do you feel now?”
“Just as if they’ve regularly got my dander up, sir. I only want to shoot as long as we’ve got a cartridge left. I’d give up then, for they’d never wait for us to get at them with the bayonet.”
Dickenson said no more, but returned to his old place, watching the galloping Boers, who had now gone far enough to carry out their plans, and were stopping by twos to dismount and wait, this being continued till the little English party formed the centre of a very wide circle. Then a signal was made from the starting-point, and firing commenced.