The Kopje Garrison. George Manville Fenn
for the Boers to shoulder and walk off into the magazine.
Seeing this, the Boer chief, now all smiles and good humour, made for the next sack, untied the tarred string which was tied round the mouth, opened it, and called to the sergeant to stand out of the light.
“I want the officers to see what beautiful corn it is,” he said.
The sergeant reached up into the wagon-tilt to lift down the lantern from where he had hung it to one of the tilt-bows.
“No, no,” cried the Boer; “you needn’t do that, boss. They can see. There,” he cried, thrusting in both hands and scooping as much as he could grasp, and letting the glistening yellow grains fall trickling back in a rivulet again and again. “See that? Hard as shot. Smell it. Fresh. This year’s harvest. I know where there’s enough to feed four or five thousand men.”
“Yes, it looks good,” said Dickenson, helping himself to a handful, and putting a grain into his mouth. “Sweet as a nut, Drew, but as hard as flint. Fine work for the teeth.”
“Yes,” said the Boer, grinning. “You English can’t grind that up with your teeth. Wait till it’s boiled, though, or pounded up and made into mealie. Ha! Make yours skins shine like the Kaffirs’.”
“You don’t want these sacks back, I suppose?” said the sergeant who was superintending. “Because if you do I’d better have them emptied.”
“Oh no, oh no,” said the Boer. “Keep it as it is; it will be cleaner.”
“Why are some of the sacks tied up with white string and some with black?” said Lennox suddenly.
“Came from different farms,” said the Boer, who overheard the remark. “Here, I’ll open that one; it’s smaller corn.”
He signed to one of his fellows to set down the sack he was about to shoulder, and opening it, he went through the same performance again, shovelling up the yellow grain with his hands. “Not quite so good as the other sort,” he said; “it’s smaller, but it yields better in the fields.”
“Humph! I don’t see much difference in it,” said Lennox, taking up a few grains and following his friend’s example.
“No?” said the Boer, chuckling as he scooped up a double handful and tossed it up, to shine like gold in the light. “You 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,