"Rather. There isn't so much as the corner of a rat hole to be had in the whole place now. But, it's knocked off raining," as a bright gleam of sunlight shot into the room. "Only a thunder-shower. We seem to have done dinner. Let's go out and pick up the latest lie. By the way, you don't want to go home again to-night, Milne? We can give you a shake-down on the sofa." "The fact is I don't. To-morrow will do just as well, and then I suppose I'll have to trek with the stock down to Swaanepoel's Hoek, while Tom, thirsting for death or glory, fills up that tally slick he was telling us about last night." "But don't you intend to volunteer for the front, like the rest?" asked Mrs Hoste in astonishment. "No. Not at present, anyway. _I've_ no quarrel with Jack Kafir; rather the reverse. I own I should like to _see_ the campaign, but I couldn't do that without drawing trigger, and that's just what I'd rather avoid, except in a case of absolute necessity." It might have been imagination, but Eustace fancied he could detect a look of intense relief pass over Eanswyth's features as he announced his desire to avoid the scene of hostilities. Yet with so many eyes upon him--upon them both--he would not look directly at her. Such is the effect of an _arriere-pensee_. Two days ago he would not have been careful to study appearances. But a good deal can happen in two days, notably the establishment of a thorough understanding between two persons. "We'll go round to Pagel's first," said Hoste, as the two men strolled forth. "If rumour has taken shape at all, likely as not it's there we shall pick it up." They soon reached the hotel. The bar and smoking-room were crammed with men--and smoke; men mostly of the farming class; men with large, sinewy hands, and habited partially or entirely in corduroy. There was a very Babel of tongues, for pretty nearly every man was talking at once, mostly on the all-absorbing topic. Some were indulging in chaff and loud laughter, and a few, we regret to say, were exceedingly unsteady on their pins. Rumour, our two friends found, had taken shape, and the great item of news which everybody was discussing had received the _imprimatur_ of official announcement. There had been a fight between the Gcalekas and the Fingoes, and a body of Mounted Police, interfering on behalf of the latter, had been defeated and forced to retire with the loss of a sub-inspector and half a dozen men. This had happened in the Idutywa Reserve two days previously. Grave news, was the unanimous verdict. Grave news that the enemy should have triumphed in the very first engagement. Another such success, and every native from Natal to the Great Fish River would be up in arms. The news would flash from tribe to tribe, from kraal to kraal, quicker than a telegraphic message. "That you, Payne?" cried Hoste. The man addressed, who formed one of an arguing knot, turned.