Dick was greatly concerned over the consequences his escapade was likely
to entail upon the sentry who had let him through. He said nothing
about the bribe, but all unconsciously repeated the man's own line of
defence; to wit, that he supposed the defaulter had reckoned that he,
being a guest, was free to go and come as he pleased. In short, he gave
Inspector Chambers no peace until that good-hearted officer, glad to
find a pretext for remitting punishment on anybody, promised to let the
man off with a reprimand; but only on condition that Dick, on his part,
would undertake not to launch out in any more madcap and foolhardy
ventures on his own account while sojourning in the camp.
This act made Dick very popular among the Police, which popularity was
consolidated by his free and easy, unaffected way with everybody. He
entered with zest, too, into any of the amusements which they got up to
vary the monotony of camp life--cricket or athletic sports, or shooting
practice; and as he was in the pink of condition, and a fine runner and
jumper, it was seldom that in such he would meet his match. Or if any
patrol was sent out, he would not be left behind. His keenness and
energy were alike unflagging.
Things seemed to be quieting down. Harley Greenoak, who would sometimes
be absent for two or three days at a time, visiting this or that chief--
for he could move freely among them, where with another it would have
been at that juncture in the highest degree unsafe--reported that there
was a more settled feeling. True the Kafir and Fingo locations were
eyeing each other from beyond their respective boundaries with distrust,
but there was no longer the threatening and aggressive bearing on the
part of the one, or the alarmed uneasiness on that of the other. It
looked as if matters would settle themselves.
Sometimes two or three headmen from the surrounding kraals would come
into the camp and have a talk with the Police officers; and although
Vunisa did not make one of them, his people, too, seemed less restless,
and no more was the stillness of night broken by the stamp and roar of
war-dancing in his location. The green, rolling plains slept peaceful
in the radiant sunlight of each unclouded day, and at night a
beacon-like flare upon a far-away height might be a grass fire or a less
harmless signal.
"What do you think of this as a new thing in blowpipes, Greenoak?" said
Sub-Inspector Mainwaring, one day, coming out of his tent with an
unusual-looking weapon in his hand--unusual there and then, at any rate.
Greenoak took it.
"One of these Winchesters. Yes, I've seen them," he said, returning it.
"New-fangled American invention. Well, I don't think much of them."
"Why not?" said the other, who was rather proud of his new acquisition.
"I've always held that what we want is some sort of repeating rifle.
Sort of thing, you know, that can pump in a lot of shots one after
another."
"That's all right, if the `lot of shots' hit," said Greenoak. "If not,
one shot at a time's sufficient."
"Well, look at that sardine tin over there"--pointing to one on the
ground about seventy yards away, and bringing up the piece.
One shot, and the tin moved; another, and it leapt off the ground;
another--a clean miss; likewise a fourth.
"You have a try now," said the owner of the weapon, handing it back to
Greenoak.
Up went the piece. One, two, three, four--Greenoak had hit but once.
Something of a murmur stirred the group of men who had stopped to look.
"By Jove, old chap, you must be a bit off colour to-day," cried Dick
Selmes. Harley Greenoak to miss--to miss anything--however small and at
whatever distance, why, that _was_ an eye-opener to him, and,
incidentally, to more than one other. Harley Greenoak--to have "his eye
wiped," and by a young Police sub-inspector! Why, it was marvellous.
"A bad workman finds fault with _his_ tools," said Greenoak, musingly,
as he eyed the weapon, and balanced it critically. "Well, I may be a
bad workman, but this is a tool I'm not used to. Wait a second while I
get my .500 Express."
He went into his tent. Several empty sardine tins were lying about.
"Now then, Mainwaring," he said as he reappeared, "chuck up one of
those, as high and as far as you can."
The other did so; Greenoak's rifle spoke. The tin went whizzing further
into the air. Before it came to the ground another bullet struck it,
and sent it skimming along some twenty yards further. A shout of
applause went up from the onlookers.
"There you are," said Greenoak, tranquilly. "It resolves itself into a
matter of what you're accustomed to. Now, I dare say a lot of practice
with that new gas-pipe of yours, Mainwaring, might get one into the way
of it. Still, I don't know--" taking the weapon from him and balancing
it again. "I don't like the hang of it. The hang seems to leave a lot
to be desired."
Then its owner tried some more shots, with fair success, and then Dick
Selmes tried some, but indifferently. The while Harley Greenoak watched
the performance narrowly and critically; hardly foreseeing that this
repeating rifle was destined to play some important part in the doings
of not very far hence.
There were times when Dick Selmes would get low-spirited. There was not
much doing just then, as we have said, and at such times his thoughts
went back to Haakdoornfontein and its grim but kindly old owner, and
more especially, of course, to Hazel Brandon. He had written to her
since he left, but to his disappointment had received no reply. Harley
Greenoak, who was the recipient of his confidences, as they lay in their
hut at night smoking their turning-in pipe, would listen with exemplary
patience, and with much kindly tact strive to comfort him; for he had
given up urging any objection Sir Anson might entertain on the subject.
That must take its chance, he decided. There was nothing to be
downhearted about, he declared. The girl wasn't born who would not
think the better of him for having borne a man's share in active events,
and so he would find when he met her again, and more to the same effect.
All of which was vastly comforting to Dick, who would turn in with the
last impression that if any fellow were found bold enough to tell him
that this world could contain a better chap than Harley Greenoak, why,
he would take infinite pleasure in calling that man a liar.
A day or two later two express-riders, dusty and fagged with hard
riding, arrived in camp with despatches. The burden of these set forth
with unmistakable plainness that the recent apparent quietude was but
the calm before the storm. The plotting and disaffection was all below
the surface now, but it was there, and all the more dangerous for that.
The Commandant, with two troops of Police and one seven-pounder gun,
were marching to the Kangala, a deserted trading store, occupying a
useful central position, there to go into permanent camp, and Inspector
Chambers was instructed to join him there, with A. Troop, immediately on
receipt of the said despatches.
"I say, but this express-riding must be a devilish exciting sort of
joke," said Dick Selmes, as he looked at the tired and travel-worn men,
who stood there waiting, while their officers, having disappeared within
the hut, were examining the despatches.
"Don't know about the joke part of it, mister," answered one of them,
"but it was exciting enough this morning early. Why, we narrowly missed
tumbling into a gang of hundreds of 'em, all bristling with assegais and
things. And we shouldn't have missed that if there hadn't been the
devil of a fog on at the time. We saw them, but just managed to slip
away before they twigged us."
"By Jove! You don't say so. Here--come along to our hut and have a
glass of grog. We've got some left, and it'll set you up again."
He had hooked an arm into one of each of them in that boyish impulsive
way which had gone so far to build up his popularity with all in the
camp. The men stared.
"Well, you are a good sort, whoever you are," said one of them. "But we
daren't."
"Oh, it'll be all right. Good old Chambers won't know. He's too much
taken up with reading his post."
"Well, we can't do it, sir--at least not until we're dismissed," the man
added, rather wistfully. "By the way, is there a Mr Selmes in the
camp? Maybe you're him--are you?"
"Yes. Why?"
"Why, there are letters for you then, with those we've brought. They'll
be in there--with the Inspector."
"Hurrah!" cried Dick. "And, I say, you fellows. As soon as you can
break loose, don't forget. There's a glass of grog going over there.
That's our hut--mine and Greenoak's," pointing it out.
Then Chambers came forth. The men saluted, and retired.
"Letters for you, just come, Selmes," said that genial officer.
Dick fairly grabbed them. Only two, one from his father, the other--He
knew that writing. It was Hazel Brandon's.
We are sorry to say that once within the solitude of his hut--Greenoak
was somewhere about the camp--this was the one he opened first. It was
in answer to his. It was not particularly long, nor worded with any
pretence at style, but it was kind, almost affectionate; dwelling on all
the good times they had had together, and reminding him that he must
visit them at their own farm when he had got through the more exciting
part of his travels. Her people would be so glad to see him--and so
forth. And Dick felt as if he were treading on air. Then he read his
father's communication, and his heart smote him for not having taken it
first. Sir Anson had arrived safe and sound at home again, and was all
right. He referred to the rumoured coming troubles in South Africa, and
hoped that if he, Dick, came in for any part of them, he would avoid
attempting foolhardy feats, or running unnecessary risks, if only
because he had an old fool of a father who hadn't yet done with him--and
so on. Then there was a lot of home news, and warm remembrances to
Harley Greenoak, so that by the time he had done, Dick felt just as soft
over this letter as he had felt over the other; and, strange to say,
considering his time of life, wondered if he was worth any one taking
the bother of thinking about at all.
The bustle outside aroused him to the outer world; for orders had been
issued to strike camp immediately, and begin the march to the Kangala,
some five and twenty miles distant. But before the start was made the
express-riders got their glass of grog apiece--indeed we dare not swear
they did not get two.
"By Jove, Greenoak!" said Dick, as they were hurriedly rolling up their
traps. "I would like to have a run across country with these
express-riders one of these days. It must be thunderingly exciting."
"Would you? Well, it's likely to be, just soon, if all these accounts
hold bottom, and I'm more than inclined to think they do. The
Commandant is an old friend of mine, and there's no more cool-headed,
intrepid man on the whole continent of Africa. If he's on the look-out,
well then it's time other people were. But you'd better leave
express-riding alone. Your dad confided you to my charge, remember."
Dick did remember, with his father's solicitous and affectionate letter
fresh in his pocket. And yet--and yet--there was at the bottom of his
mind a half-fledged lurking determination that he would take his turn at
express-riding--if he saw the chance. Two men--or three--darting across
a hostile country, bearing with them momentous possibilities--could any
situation of adventure hold out anything more alluring? But--he said
nothing more on the subject then. Harley Greenoak was sometimes away
from camp--on mysterious absences.