"I found them by the Griqua," responded the Bushman, "and so brought them away with me. Now, baas, hartloup!"
Guy took hold of the pony by the bridle, and they trotted along on either side at a good pace. For a little while the pony, relieved of its burden, seemed to move more freely. The improvement was but a fleeting one, however; the lameness grew worse. It became evident to the two runners that their pace was rapidly decreasing.
"This will never do," said Guy, looking with dismay at Poeskop. "What's to be done?"
"The pony is dead beat, baas," rejoined the Bushman. "We must just leave him to take his chance, and push on. I'll take the water-bottle, and we must run."
So speaking, and taking the water-bottle, they pressed on. They had now come some three miles from the mouth of the kloof where Poeskop had first left the pony. Another nine or ten miles lay between them and the woodland where Mr. Blakeney and Tom lay waiting the result of Poeskop's expedition of discovery. Guy was a first-rate runner, and had the pace of the Bushman. Poeskop, on the other hand, could go at a steady jog trot during the whole of a long day, and had often compassed fifty miles in a journey of ten or twelve hours. They were encumbered with their rifles and ammunition, and Poeskop carried the water-bottle, all of which tended, of course, to increase their difficulties.
As they trotted across the open plain Poeskop looked behind him.
"They're not coming yet," he said. "We must make the most of our start."
Away they went, running steadily at a pace of rather better than seven miles an hour, which, under all the circumstances, and seeing that they were moving through longish grass, was excellent going. For a couple of miles they kept this up.
"Baas," said Poeskop presently, looking at Guy with a strange, comical expression on his yellow, pinched face, "your legs are too long for me. I can hardly keep up with you."
"All right," said Guy cheerfully; "I'll slacken off a bit."