“What is it?”
“Stealing corn, I call it, sir; and it’s being done in a horrid messy way, too.”
“What! from the stores?”
“Yes, sir,” said the man; “but come and look.”
“Ready,” said Lennox, taking out and examining his revolver, and then thrusting it back into its holster.
The next minute, after a glance at Dickenson, who was sleeping peacefully enough, Lennox was following the sergeant, whose dim lantern shed a curious-looking halo in the black darkness. Then as they passed a sentry another idea flashed across the young officer’s confused brain, brought forth by the sight of the guard, for on looking beyond the man there was no sign of the Boers’ lantern hanging from the front bow of their wagon-tilts.
“What about the Boers?” he said sharply.
“Been gone about an hour, sir. I suppose it was all right? Captain Roby saw them start.”
“Oh yes, it is quite right,” said Lennox. “Now then, what about this corn? Some of the Kaffirs been at it?”
“What do you think, sir?” said the man, holding down the lantern to shed its light upon the ground, as they reached the open door of the store and showed a good sprinkling of the bright yellow grains scattered about to glisten in the pale light.