Fortunately for the party it was at a tremendously long-range, for, after the way in which the enemy had suffered in regard to their ponies, they elected to keep what they considered to be outside the reach of the British rifles; and no reply was made, Dickenson declining to try and hit the poor beasts which formed the Boer shelter in a way which would only inflict a painful wound without disabling them from their masters’ service.
“It would be waste of our cartridges, sergeant,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” was the reply; “perhaps it’s best to wait. They’ll be tempted into getting closer after a bit. Getting tired of it if they don’t hit us, and make us put up a white flag for the doctor. Look at them. Oh, it’s nonsense firing at such a distance. Their rifles carry right enough, but it’s all guesswork; they can’t take an aim.”
The sergeant was right enough; but the bullets were dangerous, and they came now pretty rapidly from all round, striking with a vicious phit! which was terribly straining to the nerves. And all the time the heat of the sun grew more painful. There was not a breath of air; and the pull’s of smoke when the enemy fired looked dim and distant, as if seen through a haze.
The sergeant made some allusion to the fact.
“Looks as if there was a change coming. There, sir, you can hardly see that man and horse.”
“No,” said Dickenson sadly, “but I think it’s from the state of our eyes. I feel giddy, and mine are quite dim.”
“Perhaps it is that, sir,” said the sergeant. “Things look quite muddled up to me. Now turn a little and look yonder, out Groenfontein way.”
Dickenson turned wearily, and winced, for three bullets came almost simultaneously, two with their vicious whiz-z! the other to cut up the ground and ricochet.
“Not hit, sir?” said the sergeant anxiously.