“Oh yes, you may believe that, and add ‘very’ to it. Well, what then?”
“You went to sleep, began dreaming, and got up and smoked the lot in your sleep.”
“You’re five feet ten of foolishness,” said Lennox testily as he lay down in his greatcoat.
“And you’re an inch in height less of suspicion,” said Dickenson, and he added a yawn.
“Well, hang the cigarettes! I am tired. I say, I’m glad we have no posts to visit to-night.”
“Hubble, bubble, burr,”—said Dickenson indistinctly.
“Bah! what a fellow you are to sleep!” said Lennox peevishly. “I wanted to talk to you about—about—about—”
Nothing; for in another moment he too was asleep and dreaming that the Boers had bounded out of their wagons, overcome the sentries, seized their rifles, and then gone on from post to post till all were well armed. After that they had crept in single file up the kopje, mastered the men in charge of the captured gun, and then tied the two trek-tows together and carried it off to their friends, though he could not quite settle how it was they got the two spans of oxen up among the rocks ready when required.
Not that this mattered, for when he woke in the morning at the reveille and looked out the oxen were absent certainly, being grazing in the river grass in charge of a guard; but the Boers were present, lighting a fire and getting their morning coffee ready, the pots beginning to send out a fragrant steam.