which necessitated his hanging by his hands, and then dropping four or five feet.
“No! It’s just as if the giants of old had made a furnace at the top of the kopje, and had been pouring the red-hot clinkers down the side.”
“Or as if it was the slope of a volcano, and those were the masses of pumice which had fallen and rolled down.”
“So that we look like a couple of flies walking amongst lumps of sugar. Well, yours is a good simile, but not so romantic as mine. That’s a deep crack, Drew, old chap. Like to see how far in it goes?”
“No, thanks. I want my dinner,” said Lennox.
“Dinner! Mealie cake and tough stewed horse.”
“Wrong,” said Lennox; “it’s beef to-night, for I asked.”
“Beef! Don’t insult the muscle-giving food of a Briton by calling tough old draught-ox beef. I don’t know but what I would rather have a bit of cheval—chevril, or whatever they call it – if it wasn’t for that oily fat. But we might as well peep in that crack. Perhaps there’s a cavern.”
“Not to-day, Bob. It’s close upon mess-time.”
“Hark at him! Prefers food for the body to food for the mind. Very well. Go on; I’m at your heels.”
They descended to the more level part of the granite-strewn eminence, acknowledged the salutes of the sentries they passed, and soon after reached the mean-looking collection of tin houses that formed the village – though there was very little tin visible, the only portion being a barricade or two formed of biscuit-tins, which had been made bullet-proof in building up a wall by filling them with earth or sand. The tin houses, according to the popular term, were really the common grey corrugated iron so easily riveted or screwed together into a hut, and forming outer and partition walls, and fairly rain-proof roofing, but as ugly in appearance as hot beneath the torrid sun.
Groenfontein consisted of a group of this class of house ranged about a wide market-square, while here and there outside were warehouses and sheds and a few farms.
Bob Dickenson said it was the ugliest and dirtiest place that ever called itself a town; and he was fairly right about the former. As to the latter, it might have been worse. Its greatest defect was the litter of old meat and other tins, while there were broken bottles enough to act as a defence when attacked by strangers.
The Boer inhabitants had for the most part fled; those who were left lived under the protection of the British force, which they preferred to being out on commando, using rifle, and risking their lives.
The empty houses left by the former inhabitants had at once been taken possession of for officers’ and soldiers’ quarters; the long warehouses and barns for stabling; and a big wool warehouse, happily containing many bales of wool, had been turned into mess and club room, the great bales making excellent couches, and others forming breastworks inside the windows and the big double doors.
Here the officers off duty lounged and rested, and here upon this particular night they were gathered round the social board to dine, each officer with his own servant; and it is worthy of remark that with officer and man, rifle, revolver, and sword were racked close at hand.
“Round the social board” is a most appropriate term, though not quite correct; for, while social in the highest degree, quite a brotherly spirit influencing the officers present, the board was really two, held together by a couple of cross-pieces and laid upon barrels, while the seats were of all kinds, from cartridge-boxes to up-ended flour-barrels, branded Na. and Pa. and Va., and various other contractions of long-sounding United States names, which indicated where the fine white flour they once contained had been grown and ground.
The mess cook had done the best he could, and provided some excellent bread, but it was rather short in quantity. As to the meat, it was hot; but there were no dish-covers, which Bob Dickenson said did not matter in the least, for during the past few weeks they had been careful to draw a veil over the food.
But of water, such as needed no filtering, there was ample, ready for quaffing out of tin mug, silver flask, cup, or horn.
“And the beauty of our tipple now is,” said Bob, “that it never does a fellow the least harm.”
It was a favourite remark of his, “an impromptu” that had been much admired. He made the remark again on this particular evening, but his tones sounded dismal.
“It’s a great blessing, though,” he added; “we might have none. Yes, capital water,” he continued, draining his cup and setting it down with a rap on his part of the board. “Just think, Drew, old man, we might be forced to sit here drinking bad champagne.”
“I don’t want to drink bad or good champagne, old fellow,” said Lennox; “but I do wish we had a barrel of good, honest, home-brewed British ale, with – ”
“A brace of well-roasted pheasants between us two – eh?”
“No; I was going to say, a good crusty loaf and a cut off a fine old Stilton cheese.”
“J-Ja!” sighed the next man.
“Never mind, gentlemen,” said the colonel; “what we have will do to work upon. When we’ve done our work, and get back home, I’ll be bound to say that John Bull will ask us to dinner oftener than will do us good. What do you say, doctor?”
“What do I say, Colonel Lindley?” cried the doctor, putting down his flask-cup. “I say this Spartan fare agrees with us all admirably. Look round the table, and see what splendid condition we are all in. A bit spare, but brown, wiry, and active as men can be. Never mind the food. You are all living a real life on the finest air I ever breathed. We are all pictures of health now; and where I have a wound to deal with it heals fast – a sure sign that the patient’s flesh is in a perfect state.”
“It’s all very fine,” said Bob Dickenson in a low voice to those about him. “Old Bolus keeps himself up to the mark by taking nips; that’s why he’s so well and strong.”
“Nonsense!” said Lennox sharply. “I don’t believe he ever touches spirits except as a medicine.”
“Who said he did?” growled Dickenson.
“You, Bob; we all heard you,” chorused several near.
“Take my oath I never mentioned spirits. I said nips.”
“Well, you meant them,” said Lennox.
“I didn’t. Don’t you jump at conclusions, Drew, old man. I meant nips of tonics. Old M.D. has got a lot of curious chemicals in that medicine-chest of his, and when he’s a bit down he takes nips of them.”
“I don’t believe it,” said a brother officer, laughing. “Old Emden, M.D., take his own physic? Too clever for that!”
The darkness had closed in soon after the officers had taken their seats – early, after tropic fashion – and one of the messmen had lit four common-looking paraffin-lamps, which swung from the rafters, smelt vilely of bad spirit, and smoked and cast down a dismal light; but the men were in high spirits, chatting away, and the meal being ended, many of them had started pipes or rolled up cigarettes, when an orderly was seen to enter by the door nearest the colonel’s seat and make quickly for his place.
There was a cessation of the conversation on the instant, and one motion made by every officer present – he glanced at the spot where his sword and revolver hung, while their servants turned their eyes to the rifle-stands and bandoliers, listening intently for the colonel’s next order: for the coming of the orderly could only mean one thing under their circumstances – an advance of the Boers.
They were right. But the increased action of their pulses began to calm down again; for instead of standing up according to his wont and giving a few short, sharp orders, the colonel, after turning towards the orderly and hearing him out, merely raised his eyes and smiled.
“Wonders will never cease, gentlemen,” he said, and he sent a soft, grey cloud of cigarette smoke upward towards the roof of the barn. “You all remember our prisoners,