“Nothing. He’s been walking there with his gun all day.”
The Englishman watched with his clear eyes the spot where Halket’s head appeared and disappeared.
“Is the nigger hanging there now?”
“Yes. The Captain said no one was to go near him, or give him anything to eat or drink all day: but—” The Colonial glanced round where the trooper lay under the bushes; and then lowering his voice added, “This morning, a couple of hours ago, Halket sent the Captain’s coloured boy to ask me for a drink of water. I thought it was for Halket himself, and the poor devil must be hot walking there in the sun, so I sent him the water out of my canvas bag. I went along afterwards to see what had become of my mug; the boy had gone, and there, straight in front of the Captain’s tent, before the very door, was Halket letting that bloody nigger drink out of my mug. The riem was so tight round his neck he couldn’t drink but slowly, and there was Halket holding it up to him! If the Captain had looked out! W-h-e-w! I wouldn’t have been Halket!”
“Do you think he will try to make Halket do it?” asked the Englishman.
“Of course he will. He’s the Devil in; and Halket had better not make a fuss about it, or it’ll be the worse for him.”
“His time’s up tomorrow evening!”
“Yes, but not tomorrow morning. And I wouldn’t make a row about it if I was Halket. It doesn’t do to fall out with the authorities here. What’s one nigger more or less? He’ll get shot some other way, or die of hunger, if we don’t do it.”
“It’s hardly sport to shoot a man tied up neck and legs,” said the Englishman; his finely drawn eyebrows contracting and expanding a little.
“Oh, they don’t feel, these niggers, not as we should, you know. I’ve seen a man going to be shot, looking full at the guns, and falling like that!—without a sound. They’ve no feeling, these niggers; I don’t suppose they care much whether they live or die, not as we should, you know.”