Sammy, who seemed far from comfortable, brought two pannikins of coffee to Stephen and myself.
“This is a momentous occasion, Messrs. Quatermain and Somers,” he said as he gave us the coffee, and I noted that his hand shook and his teeth chattered. “The cold is extreme,” he went on in his copybook English by way of explaining these physical symptoms which he saw I had observed. “Mr. Quatermain, it is all very well for you to paw the ground and smell the battle from afar, as is written in the Book of Job. But I was not brought up to the trade and take it otherwise. Indeed I wish I was back at the Cape, yes, even within the whitewashed walls of the Place of Detention.”
“So do I,” I muttered, keeping my right foot on the ground with difficulty.
But Stephen laughed outright and asked:
“What will you do, Sammy, when the fighting begins?”
“Mr. Somers,” he answered, “I have employed some wakeful hours in making a hole behind that tree-trunk, through which I hope bullets will not pass. There, being a man of peace, I shall pray for our success.”
“And if the Arabs get in, Sammy?”
“Then, sir, under Heaven, I shall trust to the fleetness of my legs.”
I could stand it no longer, my right foot flew up and caught Sammy in the place at which I had aimed. He vanished, casting a reproachful look behind him.
Just then a terrible clamour arose in the slavers’ camp which hitherto had been very silent, and just then also the first light of dawn glinted on the barrels of our guns.