“Let’s see,” said Lennox one evening; “we’ve been attacked every day since our fishing-trip.”
“That’s right; and the Boers have been beaten every day for a week.”
“And yet they are as impudent as over. They think that we shall surrender as soon as we grow a little more hungry.”
“Then they’ll be sold,” said Dickenson, “for the hungrier I grow the more savage and full of fight I get. You know about the old saying of some fellow, that when he had had a good dinner a child might play with him?”
“Oh yes, I know,” said Lennox. “Well, these children of the desert had better not try to play with me.”
“Ought to have a notice on you, ‘Take care; he bites’—eh?” said Lennox merrily.
“’M, yes; something of the kind. I say, I wish, though, I could sleep without dreaming.”
“Can’t you?”
“No; it’s horrible. I go to sleep directly I lie down, and then the game begins. I’m at Christmas dinners or banquets or parties, and the tables are covered with good things. Then either they’ve got no taste in them, or else as soon as I try to cut a slice or take up a mouthful in a spoon it’s either snatched or dragged away.”
“Oh, don’t talk about food,” said Lennox impatiently; “it makes me feel sick. There’s one comfort, though.”