"`For a' that, and a' that,' as the song says," muttered the sergeant to himself. "Whether he's one of our men or an enemy. I can't lie here, able to help, without going to his help." "No, no, sir; you mustn't stir," cried the sergeant excitedly. "If you begin to move there'll be a shower of bullets cutting up the ground about you. It's a good hundred and fifty yards to crawl." "I can't help that," said Dickenson quietly. "I must do it." "But think of yourself, sir," said the sergeant. "A man in my position can't think of himself, sergeant." "Well, think of us, sir." "I shall, sergeant." "Ha!" cried the sergeant, in a tone full of exultation. "And think of your friend, sir. He wants help as bad as that chap, and you ought to think of him first." For just then they heard Lennox talking hurriedly, and on Dickenson looking back over his shoulder he could see his comrade's hands moving in the air, as if he were preparing to struggle up. Dickenson began to turn hurriedly to creep back to where Lennox lay, with one of the ponies grazing calmly enough close by, when the hands fell again, and the young officer lay perfectly still. "He has dropped to sleep again, and may be quiet for an hour. Sergeant, I'm going to crawl out to that wounded Boer." "Very well, sir; you're my officer, and my duty is to obey. I'm very sorry, Mr Dickenson. It's a good two hundred yards, sir, and I believe it's a bit of slimmery. He crawled there to be out of shot." _Whiz-z-z! crack_! A puff of smoke and then a rush of hoofs, for the pony which had been grazing so calmly close by where Lennox lay went tearing over the veldt for about fifty yards, when, with two of its companions trotting after it as if to see what was the matter, it pitched suddenly upon its head, rolled over with its legs kicking as if it were galloping in the air, and then they fell and all was over, the two others turning and trotting back, to begin grazing once again. "That's bad," said Dickenson sadly. "We couldn't spare that pony. Why, sergeant, they can shoot! I didn't think they could have done it at this range." "What! not at two hundred yards, sir?" "Two hundred, man? It's a thousand." "Why, you don't see it, sir," cried the sergeant excitedly. "It wasn't the enemy out yonder sent that bullet home." "Not the enemy out there?" cried Dickenson. "No, sir. It was your dead man who fired that shot." "What?" "Don't feel so sorry for him, sir, do you, now?" As the sergeant was asking this question, the soldier who lay off to their left, and who had not discharged his piece for some time, fired simultaneously with a shot which came from the direction where the wounded Boer lay. "Ah!" cried the sergeant excitedly. "Can you see him from there?" "No," growled the man; "but I saw something move, and let go on the chance of hitting him, but only cut up the sand."