"Copped it, you see, Dudley," remarked Rupert. "If there's any trouble knocking about I'm bound to stand in. But I guess I did my whack before I was knocked out," he added grimly. "Managed to work off sixty rounds, and when we started I found myself wondering if I had the strength to pick up a rifle."
"What have you got?" asked his brother.
"Bayonet thrust," was the reply. "We were jammed up anyhow, but the fellow who gave it me won't try the trick on any one else. Have you any water?"
Dudley shook his head.
"Sorry," he replied.
"Seems a scarcity of it," continued Rupert. "All the men's water-bottles are bone-dry, and it's hot work tackling a kraal fire. The niggers, too, are clamouring for water."
"The fire's burning itself out, I fancy," remarked Dudley. "Before dawn we ought to be able to get to the well. Now I must do my whack."
Taking a spade of native workmanship from the hands of an exhausted trooper the subaltern set to work with a will, for much had to be done in a very short space of time. It was a case of excavating under extreme difficulties, for apart from the smoke and heat from the blazing huts bullets were dropping frequently and at random upon that part of the kraal still held by the hard-pressed but as yet unconquerable garrison.
Throughout the rest of the night the enemy made no attempt to renew the assault. With the dawn the worst of the task of shortening the line was accomplished, and the jaded men threw themselves down to rest, until every available position immune from rifle fire was covered with khaki and black figures sleeping the sleep of utter exhaustion.
There was little rest for Dudley Wilmshurst and the patrol-commander. Having visited the sentries they examined the defences in order to discover if there were any weak points that had escaped notice during the hours of darkness.