Poeskop grinned at the compliment.
"Baas, I will find out all right," he said eagerly. "I like Baas Guy--he is my baas; and I will, somehow or other, bring him away with me if I can. At all events, I will reach him. We Bushmen, you know, can creep like the snake on his stomach. I shall becreep Baas Guy to-night. You will see. Poeskop knows. You stay here. I will come back by morning. If I can bring Baas Guy, well and good. If not, we try some other plan."
"Very well," said Mr. Blakeney, "we will wait here. Do the best you can, but don't run Baas Guy into danger. Get him away if you think you have a fair chance. Now, how many cartridges have you, if these fellows come out and we have to use our rifles?"
"I have seventeen," interrupted Tom, hastily running his fingers over his bandolier.
"And I have fourteen myself," added his father.
Poeskop fingered his greasy old bandolier.
"Nine, baas!" he said, grinning.
"Why, you're as niggardly as a Boer with your cartridges," said Mr. Blakeney, with a laugh. "I've often told you that you don't carry enough for emergencies. Here, when we're in a tight place and may want every bullet we've got, you're short."
"The baas is right," said Poeskop apologetically. "I'll never come so short again. Never mind. Perhaps I may find some more in Karl Engelbrecht's camp; who knows?"
"Well, don't play the fool and do anything rash," added his master. "What we want to do is to rescue Baas Guy, and get away. At our own camp we have plenty of rifles and cartridges, and, with our other men, can give a good account of Karl Engelbrecht and all his blackguards."