“Is there?” cried Dickenson excitedly. “Where? Give us a bit.”
“Nonsense! I mean we have plenty of that beautiful spring water.”
“Ugh!” cried Dickenson, with a shudder. “Cold and clear, unsustaining. I saw some water once through a microscope, and it was full of live things twizzling about in all directions. That’s the sort of water we want now—something to eat in it as well as drink.”
Lennox made an irritable gesture.
“Talk about something else, man,” he cried. “You think of nothing but eating and drinking.”
“That’s true, old man. Well, I’ll say no more about drinking; but I wonder how cold roast prisoner would taste?”
“Bob!” shouted Lennox.
“Well, what shall I talk about?”
“Look about you. See how beautiful the kopjes and mountains look in the distance this evening; they seem to glow with orange and rose and gold.”
“There you go again! You’re always praising up this horrid place.”