“What do you say to telling Roby to set a man to probe the sacks with a fixed bayonet?”
“It would be wise,” whispered back Lennox.
“Tchah!” sneered Dickenson. “How could a fellow exist under one of those sacks of corn? Why, they must weigh on to a couple of hundredweight.”
“I don’t care; there’s some dodge, Bob, I’m sure.”
“Artful dodge, of course. Here, let’s see if we know the fellows again.”
“Very well; but be on your guard.”
“Bother! Roby and his men will mind we are not hurt.”
As he spoke Dickenson led the way close up to the roughly-clad Boers about the wagons, where, in spite of the darkness, the face of their leader was easy to make out as he sat pulling away at a big German pipe well-filled with a most atrociously bad tobacco, evidently of home growth and make.
“Hullo, old chap!” said Dickenson heartily; “so you’ve thought better of it?”
The Boer looked at him sharply, and, recognising the speaker, favoured him with a nod.