Now, please, no more words, Mr Anson; you are my prisoner.

Quick, boys! Get the team in-spanned and the wagon turned the other way." "But breakfast," said Anson, with a groan.

"I must have something to eat." "The billy is boiling," said the sergeant to his chief, in a confidential tone, "and the bullocks would be all the better for an hour's feed, sir." The superintendent looked sharply towards the fire and the prisoner's provisions, and shaded his eyes and gazed for some minutes south.
"You're right," he said.

"Send two men off a good mile forward as outposts, and let the oxen feed .-- Now, Mr Anson, I'll take breakfast with you if you'll have me for a guest." "Yes; I can't help myself," said the prisoner bitterly; "and suppose I shan't have a chance given me to make your tea agreeable with something I have in the wagon." "No; I don't think you will, sir, thanks." "But I can sit and wish you luck, my friend, and my wish is this--that a commando may swoop down upon you and your gang." "Thanks once more," said the superintendent grimly.

"There, sit down, sir, and I'll preside and send you your breakfast." This was done, the repast made, and, as soon as two of the constables had finished, they were sent off to relieve their rear-guard, sending them on to have their meal, and with orders to fall back towards the wagon a quarter of an hour after the relief had been made.
All this was duly carried out, the oxen in-spanned, and the wagon began its lumbering course back towards Kimberley, the black driver and voorlooper taking their places in the most unconcerned way, as if it were all in the day's work, while Anson, after eating voraciously, had a fit of the sulks, watching narrowly the movements of the police.