CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.
NIGHT WORK.
By a sudden effort I threw off the dreamy sensation--the feeling that I was half-stunned by the pressure of the task I had undertaken, now that it had suddenly grown so much greater than I had anticipated--and I walked alongside the wagon-box, breathing hard, and planning that at the first sound of approaching enemies I would rush forward to where Joeboy was tramping beside the foreloper, assagai in hand, and make a dash with him for liberty.

But the minutes glided by, as the line of wagons, all going on with the regularity of some great, elongated machine, rolled easily along over the soft earth, the rested bullocks pulling steadily under the guidance of their leaders and drivers.
In vain I listened for the furious rush of horses and the challenges and orders to stop; then, by degrees, I began to grasp the fact that, though hundreds of Boers must have heard the wagons start, not one gave heed to the crack of whip, the cries of the black drivers, or the creaking and rumbling of the wheels.

The moving of wagons of stores was quite a matter of course; somebody had given orders for their position to be changed, and that was all.

These sounds were nothing to the weary men, rolled up in their warm blankets, making the most of their night's rest.
Doubtless it awoke many; but they only listened for a moment, and then turned over to sleep again.

Oxen, their drivers, and the wagons had nothing to do with the enemy.