"No jolly well make mark time, Massa; niggah him come."
He pointed in the direction of the main body of the black raiders, who were now advancing in close formation to the support of the luckless pursuers of Colin and Tiny.
"Right-o, Tenpenny Nail," replied Sinclair. "Buck up, Tiny! It's only another mile or so."
The four promptly set out for Kilembonga, their pace considerably accelerated by the knowledge that there were between eighty or a hundred keen stabbing spears at less than a couple of miles behind them. Encumbered with their rifles and wearing heavy boots and leggings, Colin and Tiny, already pretty well done up, found those two miles a hard task. On the other hand, the two Haussas, in spite of being barefooted, hardly noticed the hard, sun-baked ground.
Long before Sinclair and Desmond arrived at the gate in the outer fence they were glad to hand their rifles over to their faithful servants.
Leaving the Haussas to turn out and arm the native employees, the two chums hurried to Colonel Narfield's room.
"Bless my soul!" ejaculated the Colonel, upon seeing the two well-nigh breathless lads. "What on earth are you doing, getting overheated on a day like this? Where have you been?"
"To Kana Kloof," replied Colin. "We were ambushed by armed natives on our way back—Sibenga's people. They are on their way here."
Colonel Narfield sprang from his bed. Although weak and shivering, he was not going to knuckle under to a dose of malaria when a horde of rebellious blacks were hammering at his gate.
Pausing only to up-end his boots and shake them—a necessary precaution in a country where poisonous centipedes abound—he drew on his foot-gear, donned a light coat and sun-helmet, then, snatching up a rifle and thrusting a packet of cartridges into his pocket, he hurried out of the house, followed by his two assistants.