her, beginning to glide away. But between the
two fires a good few were consumed before they managed to; for the shots
from above were now coolly and carefully timed, and those from below,
especially where Harley Greenoak got his foresight on to a brown red
body, told with terror-striking effect. In a very few minutes there was
not a Kafir left on the hillside.

"Hi! Here! Hullo, Greenoak, here we are," sung out Dick Selmes.
"You're just in time, but we've bagged the two chiefs. Come along."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

They started back to camp without delay. Just before reaching it, one
of the four troopers, who was given to pessimism, remarked--

"Old Chambers'll get all the kudos for to-day's job. We shan't."

It may be said that in the event the speaker was wrong. The Commandant
was far too wise and too just a man to allow a meritorious service to go
unrecognised. In the event, too, it transpired that these four had
performed a very meritorious service indeed, and all of them, except one
man who left the Force, his time having expired, got promotion as soon
as practicable.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

THE COMMANDANT'S JOKE.

"Hallo, Selmes, what's the row with you?" said Trooper Sketchley,
suddenly noticing that Dick's face had gone rather white. "Confound it,
you didn't get hit, did you?"

Harley Greenoak, who was riding a little way in front, keeping a
watchful eye on the captive chiefs, instinctively reined in his horse,
having just overheard. The movement annoyed Dick Selmes. It seemed to
him to savour of leading-strings; and had not he borne part in two good
fights--three, in fact, for this capture of the two chiefs was better
than a fight. It was a bold dash and a fight combined.

"Oh, it's nothing," he answered, rather testily. "Something seemed to
knock me during that last volley. I expect it was a spent pot-leg or
splinter of rock. But it'll keep till we get back to camp."

"Where did it knock you?" said Greenoak.

"Here. Bridle arm. Rather ride with the right."

"All serene. But--just haul up your sleeve, if you can."

No fuss. No calling a halt. Just a plain injunction. Such was Harley
Greenoak. Dick obeyed.

"You'll be all right, Dick," pronounced Greenoak, after a brief
scrutiny, during which he strove to conceal the anxiety he felt. "It's
as you say, a spent pot-leg. But it has made a nasty jagged scratch all
the s