Then a spear struck William Jamieson in the forehead—a rough straw hat alone saving his brain. The blood rushed down, and, dripping on his gun, damped the priming.
Things looked bad. A little faltering had lost the fight.
But the Laird of Ettrick shot the savage dead who threw the spear, and under cover of this surprise he and Robert Jamieson carried their wounded comrade safely out of the field.
Among other experiments for the benefit of the tribe, I had adopted a small black boy. He was formally handed over to me by his grand-uncle, who informed me that his name was Tommy, and adjured me to "kick him plenty." With this thoughtful admonition from his only surviving male relative I did not trouble myself to comply, though it occurred to me subsequently that it was founded upon a correct analysis of boy nature generally, and of Master Tommy's in particular. So he was a good deal spoiled, and, though occasionally useful with the cattle, did pretty much as he liked, and vexed the soul of good Mrs. Burge continually.
One night, when we had been on the run all day and had found the cattle much disorganised, we noticed an unusual number and brilliancy of fires at the black camp in the Rocks. We could generally see their fires in the distance at night, and could judge of the direction of the camp, though, owing to the broken nature of the ground, we did not seek to follow them up, unless when making a reconnaissance en force.
On this particular night, however, something
