But aren't you going to search ?" "Yes," said the superintendent sharply.

"Your rifle, please." Anson unslung it from where it hung in the wagon, and the officer took it, examined the stock and the plate at the end of the butt, to be sure that there were no secret places scooped out of the wood, before he opened the breech and withdrew the ball cartridges, holding the empty barrels up to his eyes.
"That's right," cried Anson; "but have a good look round for squalls--I mean Boers.

Gun-barrels don't make half bad things to squint through when you haven't got a binocular." "Bah!" said the superintendent angrily, replacing the cartridges and closing the breech with a snap.

"But you have a pair of glasses slung across your shoulder, sir.

Have the goodness to pass the case here." Anson obeyed willingly enough, giving his slung case up for the rifle that was returned.
"There you are," he said, "and when you've done I suppose you'd like to search my clothes and my skin.