"Perhaps not; but, I say, don't stand fiddling about with that whistle. Blow, man, blow, and let the lads know where we are. I don't want to be shot now by our own men: too degrading, that." Drew placed the whistle to his lips, and the shrill, penetrating, chirruping call rang out, while Dickenson stood looking upward towards the top of the bank. Then Robin he put him his horn to his mouth And a blast he did loudly blow, While quick at the call his merry men all Came tripping along in a row! He half-hummed, half-sang the old lines in a pleasant baritone voice, and then listened. "Don't see many _merry men_ tripping--poor, hungry beggars! Blow again, Drew, old man. Why don't they stop firing?" Drew blew again, and, to the intense satisfaction of both, the whistle was answered from among the trees above. "Ahoy there! Where are you?" "Here! here!" shouted the young officers together. "Cease firing!" came now in a familiar voice, and the shots died out. "It's Roby," said Drew eagerly. "Never liked him so well before," said Dickenson, laughing. "Ahoy! We're coming up." "Oh, there you are!" came from above, and a good, manly, sun-tanned face was thrust over the edge of the cliff. "All right?" "Yes! Yes!" was the reply. "That's better than I expected, lads," cried the officer. "Does one good. I thought we were avenging your death. Well,"--the speaker's face expanded into a broad grin--"it's getting on towards dinner-time. What have you caught?" "Tartars!" growled Drew shortly. "Yes," said Dickenson; "a regular mess." The Kopje Garrison--by George Manville Fenn CHAPTER THREE. ON THE QUI VIVE. "So it seems," said the officer above. "But hullo, you! You're wounded." "Pooh! stuff!" said Dickenson shortly; "bit picked out of my ear." "But,"--began the head of the rescue party. "Let it be," said Dickenson snappishly as he pressed his hand to the injured place. "If I don't howl about it, I'm sure you needn't." "Very well, old fellow, I will not. Ugh! what's that down there--that fellow dead?" The officer leaned out as far as he could so as to get a good look at the motionless figure at the foot of the cliff. Drew glanced at the figure too, and nodded his head. "Who shot him--you or Dickenson?" "Neither of us," said Drew gravely. "It was the work of one of your fellows; he fell from up there. But what about the party who crossed by the ford?" "Oh, we've accounted for them. Cut them off from the ford and surrounded them. Fifteen, and bagged the lot, horses and all." "You were a precious long time coming, though, Roby," grumbled Dickenson. "We seem to have been firing here all day."