The Kopje Garrison: A Story of the Boer War. Fenn George Manville

are not a farmer, and have not grown thousands of sacks of it. I have.”

      He drew the mouth of the sack together again and tied it with its white string, when it too was borne off through the open doorway to follow its predecessors.

      “That roof sound?” said the Boer, pointing up at the corrugated iron sheeting.

      “Oh yes, that’s all right,” said the sergeant.

      “Good,” said the Boer. “Pity to let rain come through on grain like that. Make it swell and shoot.”

      The first wagon was emptied and the second begun, the Boers working splendidly till it was nearly emptied; and then the cornet turned to Captain Roby.

      “Don’t you want some left out,” he said, “to use at once?”

      “Yes,” said the captain; “leave out six, and we’ll hand them over to the bakers and cooks.”

      Three of the white-tied and three of the black-tied sacks were selected by the field-cornet, who told his men to shoulder them, and they were borne off at once to the iron-roofed hut which was used as a store. Then the wagons being emptied, they were drawn on one side, and the captain turned to consult Lennox about what hut was to be apportioned to the Boers for quarters.

      “Why not make them take to the wagons?” said Dickenson.

      “Not a bad notion,” replied Captain Roby; and just at that moment, well buttoned up in their greatcoats – for the night was cold – the colonel and major came round.

      “Where are you going to quarter these men, Roby?” said the former.

      “Mr Dickenson here, sir, has just suggested that they shall keep to their wagons.”

      “Of course,” said the colonel; “couldn’t be better. They’ll be well under observation, major – eh?”

      “Yes,” said that officer shortly; and it was announced to the field-cornet that his party were to make these their quarters.

      This was received with a smile of satisfaction, the Boers dividing into two parties, each going to a wagon quite as a matter of course, and taking a bag from where it hung.

      Ten minutes later they had dipped as much fresh water as they required from the barrels that swung beneath, and were seated, knife in hand, eating the provisions they had brought with them, while when the colonel and major came round again it was to find the lanterns out, the Dutchmen in their movable quarters, some smoking, others giving loud announcement that they were asleep, and close at hand and with all well under observation a couple of sentries marching up and down.

      “I think they’re honest,” said the colonel as the two officers walked away.

      “I’m beginning to think so too,” was the reply.

      A short time before, Lennox and his companion had also taken a farewell glance at the bearers of so valuable an adjunct to the military larder, and Dickenson had made a similar remark to that of his chief, but in a more easy-going conversational way.

      “Those chaps mean to be square, Drew, old man,” he said.

      “Think so?”

      “Yes; so do you. What else could they mean?”

      “To round upon us.”

      “How? What could they do?”

      “Get back to their people and speak out, after spying out the weakness of the land.”

      “Pooh! What good would that do, you suspicious old scribe? Their account’s right enough; they proved it by the plunder they brought and their eagerness to sack as much tin as they could for it.”

      “I don’t know,” said Lennox; “the Boers are very slim.”

      “Mentally – granted; but certainly not bodily, old man. Bah! Pitch it over; you suspect every thing and everybody. I know you believe I nobbled those last cigarettes of yours.”

      “So you did.”

      “Didn’t,” said Dickenson, throwing himself down upon the board which formed his bed, for they had returned to their quarters. “You haven’t a bit of faith in a fellow.”

      “Well, the cigarettes were on that shelf the night before last, and the next morning they were gone.”

      “In smoke,” said Dickenson, with a yawn.

      “There, what did I say?”

      “You said I took them, and I didn’t; but I’ve a shrewd suspicion that I know who did smoke them.”

      “Who was it?” said Lennox shortly.

      “You.”

      “I declare I didn’t.”

      “Declare away, old man. I believe you went to sleep hungry.”

      “Oh yes, you may believe that, and add ‘very’ to it. Well, what then?”

      “You went to sleep, began dreaming, and got up and smoked the lot in your sleep.”

      “You’re five feet ten of foolishness,” said Lennox testily as he lay down in his greatcoat.

      “And you’re an inch in height less of suspicion,” said Dickenson, and he added a yawn.

      “Well, hang the cigarettes! I am tired. I say, I’m glad we have no posts to visit to-night.”

      “Hubble, bubble, burr,” – said Dickenson indistinctly.

      “Bah! what a fellow you are to sleep!” said Lennox peevishly. “I wanted to talk to you about – about – about – ”

      Nothing; for in another moment he too was asleep and dreaming that the Boers had bounded out of their wagons, overcome the sentries, seized their rifles, and then gone on from post to post till all were well armed. After that they had crept in single file up the kopje, mastered the men in charge of the captured gun, and then tied the two trek-tows together and carried it off to their friends, though he could not quite settle how it was they got the two spans of oxen up among the rocks ready when required.

      Not that this mattered, for when he woke in the morning at the reveille and looked out the oxen were absent certainly, being grazing in the river grass in charge of a guard; but the Boers were present, lighting a fire and getting their morning coffee ready, the pots beginning to send out a fragrant steam.

      Chapter Seven.

      Friends on the Forage

      There were too many “alarums and excursions” at Groenfontein for much more thought to be bestowed upon the friendly Boers, as the party of former prisoners were termed, in the days which ensued. “Nobody can say but what they are quiet, well-behaved chaps,” Bob Dickenson said, “for they do scarcely anything but sit and smoke that horrible nasty-smelling tobacco of theirs all day long. They like to take it easy. They’re safe, and get their rations. They don’t have to fight, and I don’t believe nine-tenths of the others do; but they are spurred on – sjambokked on to it. Pah! what a language! Sjambok! why can’t they call it a whip?”

      “But I don’t trust them, all the same,” said Lennox. “I quite hate that smiling field-cornet, who’s always shifting and turning the corn-sacks to give them plenty of air, as he says, to keep the grain from heating.”

      “Why, he hasn’t been at it again, has he?” said Dickenson, laughing.

      “At it again?” said Lennox. “What do you mean?”

      “Did he shout to you to come and look at it?”

      “Yes; only this morning, when the colonel was going by. Asked us to go in and look, and shovelled up the yellow corn in one of the sacks. He made the colonel handle some of it, and pointed out that he was holding back the corn tied up with the white strings because it lasted better.”

      “What did the old man say?”

      “Told him that, as the stock was getting so low, he and his men must make a raid and get some more.”

      “And