"What will they do with us, Mr. Reeves?" asked Hugh, speaking with an effort, and then only after he had rolled his swollen tongue over his parched lips.
"Can't say. Hold us to ransom, most likely."
"It is hot, this sun," said Gerald.
"Tear my shirt sleeve off; it's nearly in rags already."
"Why?" asked young Kirby wonderingly.
"Never mind why. For one reason, I can't tear it myself."
Raising his bound wrists with an effort, while the correspondent rolled over in the lad's direction, Gerald gripped the fragment of thin flannel, and in another moment Reeves was without a sleeve, in addition to a backless shirt.
"Give me the piece. That's it. Now, lean my way," and the correspondent neatly placed the broad strip of flannel upon the lad's head. "Save you from sunstroke, perhaps. Now, Hugh, you take a strip from Gerald's shirt. It's in about the same first-class condition as mine."
But before Hugh could perform his part of the task, the Arab touched him on the shoulder with the haft of his spear, then spoke a few words to one of the crowd who were enjoying the spectacle of the captured Kafirs. The youth addressed evidently stood in awe of the custodian of the prisoners, for his broad smile vanished, and turning he ran swiftly towards the outskirts of the encampment.
In a few moments he returned with two broad leaves in his hand, which he offered to the man who had ordered him to bring them. Speaking rapidly, the latter commanded the youth to place them on the heads of the two uncovered captives.