“They were not wide-awake enough to fasten my arms again,” his friend rejoined, “and that is something in our favour! Never say die, old fellow! Remember the yarn John Richards spun us; he was in far greater straits than we are, nevertheless he managed to escape from two hundred Red-skins, every one of whom was eager to get his scalp. But turn your back, Tom,” he went on, “and let me see if I cannot loosen your bonds; you will be more at ease then.”
“But I say, Frank, did you take in all that yarn?” asked Tom, as the other cast loose the thongs round his arms. “I didn’t; at least I thought Richards was drawing on his imagination a good deal.”
“Not a bit of it; what he told us was true enough; Richards is not the sort of man to romance. I know him well, for he has acted as our agent at Graham’s Town for the last seven years—in fact ever since he came to South Africa.”
“Well, at all events,” yawned Tom, “I couldn’t escape at this moment if I had the chance; for I’m completely knocked up, and so are you, old fellow; and as we have only one hour—”
“We had better make the most of it,” Frank chimed in. “That is just what I was about to remark, Tom. We must manage to take rest whenever we can, for we shall require all our strength and vigour—mental and physical—if we want to give our guards the slip, and find our way back to the colony.”
It was about mid-day when our two friends lay down to snatch a hasty repose after their toilsome journey; but when Frank Jamieson awoke he found to his intense surprise that the sun had sunk below the horizon, and darkness was rapidly setting in. Tom Flinders was still asleep by his side, and round them were gathered the five Caffres, apparently also asleep—two of them face downwards, with their woolly heads buried in their arms, the other three stretched on the broad of their backs.
“Halloa!—why, it is nearly dark!” exclaimed Frank, sitting up and rubbing his eyes to make sure that he was quite awake. “We must have been sleeping considerably longer than an hour! Or is it possible that I have been dreaming?” was his mental question; but his bare limbs and swollen, bleeding feet were convincing proofs to the contrary. “Tom—Tom Flinders,” he then whispered, bending over his friend and gently shaking him.
“What’s the row?” cried Tom, waking up with a start.
“H’sh,” whispered Frank; “don’t make a noise! Waishlahla and his men have overslept themselves, and if we mean to make a dash for freedom, it must be now or never! We shall not get such a chance again.”
“I’m game,” Tom answered. “But we had better secure their weapons first, especially the chief’s gun.”