Many of the burghers glanced at Jack from beneath their bushy eyebrows, bestowing ominous scowls on the young Britisher, which he answered with a haughty stare.
The burghers off-saddled, and after giving their horses a feed of mealies, began to refresh themselves with a repast of biltong, biscuits, and jam.
Jack was placed under a guard, one of whom he was glad to find was Piet Van Donnop. Under his protection our hero knew that he would receive no ill-treatment.
Van Donnop insisted upon Jack receiving medical treatment from a burgher who had walked a Berlin hospital, but whose indiscretions had caused him to be expelled before he took his degree.
Dirck Hartmann, for such was the medico's name, proved a very agreeable sort of young fellow, and showed great kindness to Jack. He examined the boy's wound, and found that a bullet had passed through the fleshy inner portion of the arm, luckily without touching an artery. As Jack said, it was a scratch—an ugly one it must be said; but the prompt application of the field dressing by Morton had minimised the loss of blood. The limb felt stiff and sore—that was all.
"You will see that this young fellow has good treatment," said Hartmann to Piet Van Donnop, as he left Jack.
"Certainly, doctor," was Piet's reply. "He is in safe hands with me;" for which Jack thanked him.
As the sun was on the point of dropping below the horizon, the Boer sentries were planted on the kopjes surrounding the plateau, and Jack was ordered to crawl into a waggon, on the floor of which were spread several layers of empty mealie bags.
Before he went to roost, Jack's observant eyes had been busy. He noticed with keen interest the picketing of the horses in the immediate vicinity, and deep satisfaction sprang up in his breast as he thought of a sharp bowie knife which he carried in the leg of one of his high boots.
He had made a strong resolve to get away from the laager before morning broke, and he determined that nothing short of utter disablement would prevent him from accomplishing his purpose.