Chapter Thirty Seven.

Chapter Thirty Seven.“But we weren’t beaten.”Stan looked round, and the man at whom he had aimed escaped.“What’s that?” he shouted as he looked for the crumbling down of the walls.The answer to his question came in the shrill, piping voice of Wing:“Um t’inkee gleat Englis’ man-o’-wa come ’long.”The Chinaman spoke as he rushed away across the wide floor, to begin climbing the narrow ladder on one side—the steps leading to the roof and the trap-door through which he had passed to play the part of lookout.“Oh, impossible!” cried Uncle Jeff hoarsely.—“Don’t believe him, Stan, boy; it’s too good to be true.”Boom!thud! and a sound like a crash, followed by a cessation of the yelling for a perceptible space, and then a peculiar murmuring, with the enemy outside becoming wildly excited, and then as if by one volition swarming for the edge of the wharf.“Wing’s right,” cried Blunt. “It must be a gunboat, and they are firing shell.”“Yes, yes,” shouted Stan, and there was a peculiar hysterical ring in his voice. “Look, uncle! that junk to the right is torn open; the poop is smashed. There’s the smoke of the shell rising, and—Hurrah! She’s going down!”Stan’s triumphant cry was taken up three times over, the defenders crowding the narrow slits to get a glimpse of what was going on—for the first shot had checked the attack, literally paralysing the pirates with astonishment; the second turned the assault into a retreat, while as the fierce hurrahs of the people in thehongwent on, the gangways of the junks were being crowded in the rush for safety.“Hoolay! hoolay! hoolay!” came from the ceiling of the great room; while as Stan turned, there was Wing’s head visible as he thrust it down, and as soon as he saw that he was observed the Chinaman shouted, “Big Englis’ ship fi’e two-bang shot.”Boom! came another report, and, almost at the same moment,crash!Another shell had burst just over the second junk close up to the wharf, the splintering of fragments causing terrible havoc, which was trampled out of sight directly by the men crowding aboard.For the moment Stan forgot all about their own perilous position, for the air rushing in through the barricaded windows was cool and refreshing; but Blunt had had eyes for what was going on below and within, where the air was growing stifling with smoke and heat.“Here, Lynn,” he shouted. “Quick! That whistle! Blow, lad, blow!”The shrill note rang out, and brought every one crowding up to one end of the great stacked-up floor.“Ah! that’s right,” cried Uncle Jeff. “Nothing to fear from the enemy now, lads; clear this window.”“Yes; and throw the bales down the staircase. It will block the way,” cried Blunt.The men cheered, and worked with all their might, bale after bale being tossed into the wide opening and filling it up so that the great draught of heat was checked and the place rendered more bearable as the flame and smoke ceased to rush up as if through some great flue.This done, Blunt gave a fresh order, and the party began to drop one after another through the window, those behind covering them with their rifles in case of an attack.But the precaution was needless, for the enemy had but one aim now—to get all on board their vessels, cast them off from the wharf, and make sail.Hence it was that the defenders reached the outside of the burninghonguninterrupted, and while the pirates were busy their intended victims followed the whistle once more, being led by Blunt and Uncle Jeff round to the broken-down window at the back which the enemy had forced.Here Blunt leapt in, followed by Stan and Uncle Jeff, marshalling his men for that which he had in view—the saving of the great warehouse before it was too late.Lucky it was that such precautions against fire had been taken and the coolies and warehousemen were so drilled.For there was only the smoke to fear now. The great casks stood full, and the buckets ready to be seized and passed along to Uncle Jeff and Lawrence, who, all soiled like the rest, and half-suffocated, sent the water streaming over the parts where the fire was eating its way along the woodwork and up the stairs, till in ten minutes flames and sparks began to give place to smoke and steam to such an extent that it was safe for some of the clerks to assist the carpenters, who, by Blunt’s orders, began to tear down the planks over the windows and let in air that could be breathed.It was none too soon, for even Uncle Jeff of the mighty muscles began to feel that he must crawl out or stifle, while as the first puff of wholesome air rushed in Lawrence dropped, and he was being raised to be carried out into the open air, but began to struggle and make signs that he should be set down. Five minutes later he was vigorously swinging a bucket again.“Hurrah, Stan!” shouted Uncle Jeff at last. “There’s nothing more to fear.—Do you see, Blunt? A splash here and a splash there. Keep the coolies at it and the mischief will not be so bad after all. Here, I must see what they’re doing outside.”“Me know—I know,” piped Wing, who always seemed to be ready for everything but heavy manual labour such as might break his nails. “Wing been gone look outside offhongwhooff. Big ship come all steam up livah. Shoot, shoot topside big junk. Numbee one topside junk go bottom. Numbee two topside junk float down livah go close ’longside. Allee ovey—junk lun ’way up livah. Steamship shoot, shoot, shoot two-bang gun.”Poor Wing in his excitement suffered to such an extent from incoherency that his speech was hard to grasp; but helped by a lookout from the wharf, where the enemy was represented only by the dead, the state of affairs was fully grasped. For the masts and parts of the sails of two junks rose from the river a few yards from the wharf-edge; the wreckage of another lying over on its side was floating down-stream, while in response to the fire of a grim-looking grey gunboat, whose shells went through her sides as if they were papier-mâché, a fourth was settling down a couple of hundred yards away, and her late occupants were swimming for the farther bank across the river.As Stan shaded his eyes, which were dim and painful from the effect of the smoke, he saw enough to prove that the fate of the other junks was sealed. They were sailing up-stream, but the grey gunboat was churning up the water astern as she stole after them like fate, every now and then sending forth a great ball of white smoke with a roar, followed by a stinging crack-like echo when a shell burst with unerring precision, the result being that the river seemed in the distance to be dotted in all directions with strange specks, all of which drifted for the farther shore.“Ah, Uncle Jeff!” cried Stan suddenly, as he heard a sharp scratch, and turned to see a match burning in the bright sunshine.“Yes, Stan, Uncle Jeff it is: come out to breathe and have a cigar. I’ve used up all my stuff, boy. Pumped out. Here we are, you see; safe, though, after all.—My word, how those Jacks can shoot! Did you see?”“Yes, uncle. Why, that junk must be half a mile away.”“Yes, splendid practice; but she’ll go no farther than to the bottom, and the lads will have a shell into that other directly.”Uncle Jeff was right. It took two more shells as he sat smoking, and then the last of the six pirate junks was so much bamboo chip floating down the stream.“Poor wretches!” he said. “It seems very terrible; but it would have been much worse if the poor warehouse had been smoking ashes now, and our bones beneath.”“Yes,” said Stan, shuddering. “I say, uncle, this is a horrible place.—Ah, Wing! You there?”“Yes; come see you like cup tea.”“What! can you get some?” cried Stan.“Yes, plenty tea. Wateh nea’ly boil.”“Oh! I should,” cried Stan huskily, “for I feel quite sick at heart.”There were a few rifle-shots fired at fugitives on the banks, but the object of the gunboat’s crew was more to scatter the savage miscreants than to add to their destruction; for the commander on board was satisfied with the blow at the pirates’ power, and he said so half-an-hour later, when his vessel had steamed back and was moored to the wharf.He had landed to inspect the place and congratulate its defenders warmly.“As brave a defence as I know of, gentlemen,” he said. “And it seems to me that I only just came up in time.”“Only just,” said Uncle Jeff; “but we weren’t beaten.”“Beaten—up!” said the officer sharply. “You’d have kept the miserable brutes off, but I’m afraid that the fire would have been rather too much—eh?”“Yes,” said Uncle Jeff; “we should have had to strike our colours to that. But there I don’t talk about it. We’ve had an awful escape.”“You have, and no mistake. Here! come on board and have a wash while something to eat is made ready.”“A wash!” cried Stan. “Oh yes.—I say, uncle, you look awful.”“Do I, my boy? Humph!—I say, captain, do you carry a pocket-mirror?”“No; but there’s a looking-glass or two in the cabins. Do you want to shave?”“What! cut off my growing beard?” said Uncle Jeff fiercely. “No, nor my head either. I wanted my nephew to see his face.”“My face?” cried Stan, colouring invisibly—that is to say, the red was hidden by the black. “Is it very bad?”He glanced at Blunt as he spoke.“Well,” was the reply, “did you ever see a sweep?”The hospitality on board the gunboat embraced the attentions of a doctor as well as refreshments, and he had a busy hour with cuts and burns before the night closed in, with sailors to keep the watch over those who slept the sleep of utter exhaustion; though ward was needless, for the remnants of the piratical gang were scattered far and wide, completely crushed.

Stan looked round, and the man at whom he had aimed escaped.

“What’s that?” he shouted as he looked for the crumbling down of the walls.

The answer to his question came in the shrill, piping voice of Wing:

“Um t’inkee gleat Englis’ man-o’-wa come ’long.”

The Chinaman spoke as he rushed away across the wide floor, to begin climbing the narrow ladder on one side—the steps leading to the roof and the trap-door through which he had passed to play the part of lookout.

“Oh, impossible!” cried Uncle Jeff hoarsely.—“Don’t believe him, Stan, boy; it’s too good to be true.”

Boom!thud! and a sound like a crash, followed by a cessation of the yelling for a perceptible space, and then a peculiar murmuring, with the enemy outside becoming wildly excited, and then as if by one volition swarming for the edge of the wharf.

“Wing’s right,” cried Blunt. “It must be a gunboat, and they are firing shell.”

“Yes, yes,” shouted Stan, and there was a peculiar hysterical ring in his voice. “Look, uncle! that junk to the right is torn open; the poop is smashed. There’s the smoke of the shell rising, and—Hurrah! She’s going down!”

Stan’s triumphant cry was taken up three times over, the defenders crowding the narrow slits to get a glimpse of what was going on—for the first shot had checked the attack, literally paralysing the pirates with astonishment; the second turned the assault into a retreat, while as the fierce hurrahs of the people in thehongwent on, the gangways of the junks were being crowded in the rush for safety.

“Hoolay! hoolay! hoolay!” came from the ceiling of the great room; while as Stan turned, there was Wing’s head visible as he thrust it down, and as soon as he saw that he was observed the Chinaman shouted, “Big Englis’ ship fi’e two-bang shot.”

Boom! came another report, and, almost at the same moment,crash!

Another shell had burst just over the second junk close up to the wharf, the splintering of fragments causing terrible havoc, which was trampled out of sight directly by the men crowding aboard.

For the moment Stan forgot all about their own perilous position, for the air rushing in through the barricaded windows was cool and refreshing; but Blunt had had eyes for what was going on below and within, where the air was growing stifling with smoke and heat.

“Here, Lynn,” he shouted. “Quick! That whistle! Blow, lad, blow!”

The shrill note rang out, and brought every one crowding up to one end of the great stacked-up floor.

“Ah! that’s right,” cried Uncle Jeff. “Nothing to fear from the enemy now, lads; clear this window.”

“Yes; and throw the bales down the staircase. It will block the way,” cried Blunt.

The men cheered, and worked with all their might, bale after bale being tossed into the wide opening and filling it up so that the great draught of heat was checked and the place rendered more bearable as the flame and smoke ceased to rush up as if through some great flue.

This done, Blunt gave a fresh order, and the party began to drop one after another through the window, those behind covering them with their rifles in case of an attack.

But the precaution was needless, for the enemy had but one aim now—to get all on board their vessels, cast them off from the wharf, and make sail.

Hence it was that the defenders reached the outside of the burninghonguninterrupted, and while the pirates were busy their intended victims followed the whistle once more, being led by Blunt and Uncle Jeff round to the broken-down window at the back which the enemy had forced.

Here Blunt leapt in, followed by Stan and Uncle Jeff, marshalling his men for that which he had in view—the saving of the great warehouse before it was too late.

Lucky it was that such precautions against fire had been taken and the coolies and warehousemen were so drilled.

For there was only the smoke to fear now. The great casks stood full, and the buckets ready to be seized and passed along to Uncle Jeff and Lawrence, who, all soiled like the rest, and half-suffocated, sent the water streaming over the parts where the fire was eating its way along the woodwork and up the stairs, till in ten minutes flames and sparks began to give place to smoke and steam to such an extent that it was safe for some of the clerks to assist the carpenters, who, by Blunt’s orders, began to tear down the planks over the windows and let in air that could be breathed.

It was none too soon, for even Uncle Jeff of the mighty muscles began to feel that he must crawl out or stifle, while as the first puff of wholesome air rushed in Lawrence dropped, and he was being raised to be carried out into the open air, but began to struggle and make signs that he should be set down. Five minutes later he was vigorously swinging a bucket again.

“Hurrah, Stan!” shouted Uncle Jeff at last. “There’s nothing more to fear.—Do you see, Blunt? A splash here and a splash there. Keep the coolies at it and the mischief will not be so bad after all. Here, I must see what they’re doing outside.”

“Me know—I know,” piped Wing, who always seemed to be ready for everything but heavy manual labour such as might break his nails. “Wing been gone look outside offhongwhooff. Big ship come all steam up livah. Shoot, shoot topside big junk. Numbee one topside junk go bottom. Numbee two topside junk float down livah go close ’longside. Allee ovey—junk lun ’way up livah. Steamship shoot, shoot, shoot two-bang gun.”

Poor Wing in his excitement suffered to such an extent from incoherency that his speech was hard to grasp; but helped by a lookout from the wharf, where the enemy was represented only by the dead, the state of affairs was fully grasped. For the masts and parts of the sails of two junks rose from the river a few yards from the wharf-edge; the wreckage of another lying over on its side was floating down-stream, while in response to the fire of a grim-looking grey gunboat, whose shells went through her sides as if they were papier-mâché, a fourth was settling down a couple of hundred yards away, and her late occupants were swimming for the farther bank across the river.

As Stan shaded his eyes, which were dim and painful from the effect of the smoke, he saw enough to prove that the fate of the other junks was sealed. They were sailing up-stream, but the grey gunboat was churning up the water astern as she stole after them like fate, every now and then sending forth a great ball of white smoke with a roar, followed by a stinging crack-like echo when a shell burst with unerring precision, the result being that the river seemed in the distance to be dotted in all directions with strange specks, all of which drifted for the farther shore.

“Ah, Uncle Jeff!” cried Stan suddenly, as he heard a sharp scratch, and turned to see a match burning in the bright sunshine.

“Yes, Stan, Uncle Jeff it is: come out to breathe and have a cigar. I’ve used up all my stuff, boy. Pumped out. Here we are, you see; safe, though, after all.—My word, how those Jacks can shoot! Did you see?”

“Yes, uncle. Why, that junk must be half a mile away.”

“Yes, splendid practice; but she’ll go no farther than to the bottom, and the lads will have a shell into that other directly.”

Uncle Jeff was right. It took two more shells as he sat smoking, and then the last of the six pirate junks was so much bamboo chip floating down the stream.

“Poor wretches!” he said. “It seems very terrible; but it would have been much worse if the poor warehouse had been smoking ashes now, and our bones beneath.”

“Yes,” said Stan, shuddering. “I say, uncle, this is a horrible place.—Ah, Wing! You there?”

“Yes; come see you like cup tea.”

“What! can you get some?” cried Stan.

“Yes, plenty tea. Wateh nea’ly boil.”

“Oh! I should,” cried Stan huskily, “for I feel quite sick at heart.”

There were a few rifle-shots fired at fugitives on the banks, but the object of the gunboat’s crew was more to scatter the savage miscreants than to add to their destruction; for the commander on board was satisfied with the blow at the pirates’ power, and he said so half-an-hour later, when his vessel had steamed back and was moored to the wharf.

He had landed to inspect the place and congratulate its defenders warmly.

“As brave a defence as I know of, gentlemen,” he said. “And it seems to me that I only just came up in time.”

“Only just,” said Uncle Jeff; “but we weren’t beaten.”

“Beaten—up!” said the officer sharply. “You’d have kept the miserable brutes off, but I’m afraid that the fire would have been rather too much—eh?”

“Yes,” said Uncle Jeff; “we should have had to strike our colours to that. But there I don’t talk about it. We’ve had an awful escape.”

“You have, and no mistake. Here! come on board and have a wash while something to eat is made ready.”

“A wash!” cried Stan. “Oh yes.—I say, uncle, you look awful.”

“Do I, my boy? Humph!—I say, captain, do you carry a pocket-mirror?”

“No; but there’s a looking-glass or two in the cabins. Do you want to shave?”

“What! cut off my growing beard?” said Uncle Jeff fiercely. “No, nor my head either. I wanted my nephew to see his face.”

“My face?” cried Stan, colouring invisibly—that is to say, the red was hidden by the black. “Is it very bad?”

He glanced at Blunt as he spoke.

“Well,” was the reply, “did you ever see a sweep?”

The hospitality on board the gunboat embraced the attentions of a doctor as well as refreshments, and he had a busy hour with cuts and burns before the night closed in, with sailors to keep the watch over those who slept the sleep of utter exhaustion; though ward was needless, for the remnants of the piratical gang were scattered far and wide, completely crushed.

Chapter Thirty Eight.“Suppose we leave them there.”Month later the people at thehonghad repaired all damages, and paint and varnish had hidden unpleasantly suggestive marks; while in two months the loss was almost forgotten in the increase of trade consequent upon the peace existing in the district, maintained by an occasional visit of the gunboat upon the station, ready always to quench every piratical spark that appeared.At first Stan had declared that he should never be able to feel settled up the river; but he did, for there was always something animated and new about the station to which the peaceful traders flocked, knowing as they did that all transactions with the English merchants meant perfect faith and nothing akin to dealings with the squeezing mandarins. In fact, the lad began to think that his busy life to and fro was, after all, one of the most happy, and that he might pick out his father and uncle as fine specimens of what English merchants might be.“I begin to think, Uncle Jeff,” he said one day, “that a young fellow might do worse than become a merchant out here.”“Well, yes,” said Uncle Jeff, with a smile; “he might—yes, certainly he might.”It was one evening when Uncle Jeff, Blunt, and Stan were talking over the old trouble of the past—that is to say, about the traitor in the camp.“Well, for my part,” said Uncle Jeff, “I give all my votes—plumpers—for poor old Wing. He never tried to destroy the ammunition. He’s true as steel.”“I second that,” said Blunt.—“Now, Lynn, what do you say?”“That it’s cruel to the poor fellow even to think of such a thing. I’d trust him anywhere.”“Same here,” said Uncle Jeff.“Same here,” said Blunt. “It must have been one of those fellows who had charge of the water-casks, but which we shall never know, for they will not split upon one another. Anyhow, they’ve fought well for us, and the only thing to be done is to let the matter drop.”“As far as we can,” said Uncle Jeff very gravely. “It’s a serious thing, though.”“Very,” replied Blunt; “and I’ve dwelt upon it time after time, till my head has been all in a whirl. You see, it was just when I was at my worst, and I can remember in my half-delirious state being in a terrible fright lest one of those stink-pots should come in, roll down the stairs, and then go bounding down and reach the magazine. It was like a nightmare to me.—And you remember, Stan, that, bad though I was, I sent Wing up to tell you of the need for being careful.”“Oh yes, I remember,” said Stan.“And even then I didn’t feel at rest,” continued Blunt, talking quickly, and seeming as if every incident connected with the first attack had come vividly back to his mind. “It was horrible, and what with the torture of my wound and that caused by anxiety lest any accident should happen to the powder, I felt as if I didn’t know what I was about. Now it was the wound, and now it was my head, and altogether it was like a terrible dream, all worry and bewildering excitement, till the pain and feverishness of my hurt were as nothing to the agony and dread lest the place should be blown up. It was then that I felt that something more must be done or the place would go, and I sent Wing to warn you, Lynn.”“Yes; of course. I thought that you must be in a great state of fidget—and no wonder.”“Fidget doesn’t express it, Lynn. I was—Bless me! How strange! How—”Blunt stopped short, looking in a bewildered way from one to the other, and ending by clapping his hand to his forehead and holding it there.“What’s the matter, Blunt?” said Uncle Jeff quietly.“Nothing—nothing—only it seems so strange—so queer. My head—my head!”“Lie back in that chair.—Stan, fill a glass with water.”“No, no; nonsense!” cried Blunt impatiently. “I’m all right now, only it’s my head. So strange!”“Yes; you’ve been talking a little too much. You see, you are still weak.”“Rubbish!” cried Blunt angrily. “You don’t understand. It’s my head. Something seems to have broken or fallen there so that I can see quite clearly.”“Drink that water,” said Uncle Jeff sternly; and in obedience to the command the manager took the glass Stan handed to him, drained it, and set it down.“Refreshing?”“Yes, very.—But how strange!”“Is it?” said Uncle Jeff quietly.“Yes. It’s almost awful,” said Blunt excitedly. “Only a little while ago.”“Here, I say, hadn’t you better leave off talking?” said Uncle Jeff gruffly.“Lie down on the mats for a few minutes,” said Stan. “I’ll roll one up for a pillow.”“Absurd!” cried Blunt. “You two are fancying that I am ill, when something that has been clogging my brain has broken or been swept away—I can’t tell which; I only know that I’m quite well again once more, and see everything clearly in connection with that business. I remember—Yes: that’s it.”Stan glanced at Uncle Jeff, who frowned and looked puzzled as to what was best to be done. In his eyes the manager was going quite off his head.For Blunt had begun to pace the office rapidly, and went on muttering to himself as he gazed straight before him, ending by stopping short at the office table and bringing one hand down with a heavy bang which made the ink leap in the stand.“Have another glass of water,” said Uncle Jeff; and Stan started to get it, but stopped short.“Don’t run away, Lynn,” cried Blunt. “This is interesting. How some doctors would like to know! It has all come back now, but I must have been off my head or I shouldn’t have acted so, of course. Half-an-hour ago I didn’t know I had done it, but I do know now. Talking about the matter seems to have cleared away the last of the mental cobwebs that have been worrying me.”“Yes, yes, yes,” said Uncle Jeff impatiently; “but you really had better have a nap.”Blunt smiled as he looked at the speaker.“You think I’m a little queer still,” he said.“Oh no,” replied Uncle Jeff; “only tired and over-excited.”“Not a bit,” replied Blunt, “I’m all right, I tell you, and I can see clearly now how that trouble came about the cartridges being wet.”“Indeed!” said Uncle Jeff. “Well, how did it come about?”“I drowned them with water, of course.”“You did?” said Stan, staring. “Nonsense!”“Yes, nonsense!” said Uncle Jeff. “You wouldn’t have done such a thing as that!”“If I had been in my senses—no. But I was not. I was wildly excited and delirious from my wound, and there was that idea pressing upon me that one of the stink-pots would roll down blazing from the upper floor and explode the cartridges. It was while I was more sane that I sent Wing to you, Lynn, with that message, but as soon as he had gone the trouble increased. I felt that he would not get there in time, and I got up and went round to the back of the warehouse, picked up one of the buckets of water, and while the men in charge of the casks were on the stairs watching you and the others keeping up the firing, I poured the water into the last case of cartridges, chuckling to myself at my cleverness, and saying that there was no fear now.”“You laughed and said that?” cried Stan sceptically.“I did. I remember it perfectly now, even to my feeling of satisfaction at having saved the place from all risk of destruction in that way. Yes, and I can remember lying down again and shutting my eyes because I heard Wing coming. Yes, there it all is, as plain as if I were looking at myself now. I can remember, too, the feeling of rest and content that came, and with it the return of the throbbing pain, till I fainted or fell asleep, to wake with my mind quite blank, knowing nothing whatever of my acts, and being ready to join in accusing poor old Wing. But there! it was the act of a man quite off his head, doing about as double-edged an act as was ever committed. Queer—eh, Lynn?”“Queer? Well, I don’t know what to call it,” said Stan, “but I hope you’ll never do such a thing again.”“I promise you I will not so long as I escape being shot through the shoulder,” said Blunt, smiling; “but if I am wounded like that I will not answer for the consequences.”Suppose we leave them there.

Month later the people at thehonghad repaired all damages, and paint and varnish had hidden unpleasantly suggestive marks; while in two months the loss was almost forgotten in the increase of trade consequent upon the peace existing in the district, maintained by an occasional visit of the gunboat upon the station, ready always to quench every piratical spark that appeared.

At first Stan had declared that he should never be able to feel settled up the river; but he did, for there was always something animated and new about the station to which the peaceful traders flocked, knowing as they did that all transactions with the English merchants meant perfect faith and nothing akin to dealings with the squeezing mandarins. In fact, the lad began to think that his busy life to and fro was, after all, one of the most happy, and that he might pick out his father and uncle as fine specimens of what English merchants might be.

“I begin to think, Uncle Jeff,” he said one day, “that a young fellow might do worse than become a merchant out here.”

“Well, yes,” said Uncle Jeff, with a smile; “he might—yes, certainly he might.”

It was one evening when Uncle Jeff, Blunt, and Stan were talking over the old trouble of the past—that is to say, about the traitor in the camp.

“Well, for my part,” said Uncle Jeff, “I give all my votes—plumpers—for poor old Wing. He never tried to destroy the ammunition. He’s true as steel.”

“I second that,” said Blunt.—“Now, Lynn, what do you say?”

“That it’s cruel to the poor fellow even to think of such a thing. I’d trust him anywhere.”

“Same here,” said Uncle Jeff.

“Same here,” said Blunt. “It must have been one of those fellows who had charge of the water-casks, but which we shall never know, for they will not split upon one another. Anyhow, they’ve fought well for us, and the only thing to be done is to let the matter drop.”

“As far as we can,” said Uncle Jeff very gravely. “It’s a serious thing, though.”

“Very,” replied Blunt; “and I’ve dwelt upon it time after time, till my head has been all in a whirl. You see, it was just when I was at my worst, and I can remember in my half-delirious state being in a terrible fright lest one of those stink-pots should come in, roll down the stairs, and then go bounding down and reach the magazine. It was like a nightmare to me.—And you remember, Stan, that, bad though I was, I sent Wing up to tell you of the need for being careful.”

“Oh yes, I remember,” said Stan.

“And even then I didn’t feel at rest,” continued Blunt, talking quickly, and seeming as if every incident connected with the first attack had come vividly back to his mind. “It was horrible, and what with the torture of my wound and that caused by anxiety lest any accident should happen to the powder, I felt as if I didn’t know what I was about. Now it was the wound, and now it was my head, and altogether it was like a terrible dream, all worry and bewildering excitement, till the pain and feverishness of my hurt were as nothing to the agony and dread lest the place should be blown up. It was then that I felt that something more must be done or the place would go, and I sent Wing to warn you, Lynn.”

“Yes; of course. I thought that you must be in a great state of fidget—and no wonder.”

“Fidget doesn’t express it, Lynn. I was—Bless me! How strange! How—”

Blunt stopped short, looking in a bewildered way from one to the other, and ending by clapping his hand to his forehead and holding it there.

“What’s the matter, Blunt?” said Uncle Jeff quietly.

“Nothing—nothing—only it seems so strange—so queer. My head—my head!”

“Lie back in that chair.—Stan, fill a glass with water.”

“No, no; nonsense!” cried Blunt impatiently. “I’m all right now, only it’s my head. So strange!”

“Yes; you’ve been talking a little too much. You see, you are still weak.”

“Rubbish!” cried Blunt angrily. “You don’t understand. It’s my head. Something seems to have broken or fallen there so that I can see quite clearly.”

“Drink that water,” said Uncle Jeff sternly; and in obedience to the command the manager took the glass Stan handed to him, drained it, and set it down.

“Refreshing?”

“Yes, very.—But how strange!”

“Is it?” said Uncle Jeff quietly.

“Yes. It’s almost awful,” said Blunt excitedly. “Only a little while ago.”

“Here, I say, hadn’t you better leave off talking?” said Uncle Jeff gruffly.

“Lie down on the mats for a few minutes,” said Stan. “I’ll roll one up for a pillow.”

“Absurd!” cried Blunt. “You two are fancying that I am ill, when something that has been clogging my brain has broken or been swept away—I can’t tell which; I only know that I’m quite well again once more, and see everything clearly in connection with that business. I remember—Yes: that’s it.”

Stan glanced at Uncle Jeff, who frowned and looked puzzled as to what was best to be done. In his eyes the manager was going quite off his head.

For Blunt had begun to pace the office rapidly, and went on muttering to himself as he gazed straight before him, ending by stopping short at the office table and bringing one hand down with a heavy bang which made the ink leap in the stand.

“Have another glass of water,” said Uncle Jeff; and Stan started to get it, but stopped short.

“Don’t run away, Lynn,” cried Blunt. “This is interesting. How some doctors would like to know! It has all come back now, but I must have been off my head or I shouldn’t have acted so, of course. Half-an-hour ago I didn’t know I had done it, but I do know now. Talking about the matter seems to have cleared away the last of the mental cobwebs that have been worrying me.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” said Uncle Jeff impatiently; “but you really had better have a nap.”

Blunt smiled as he looked at the speaker.

“You think I’m a little queer still,” he said.

“Oh no,” replied Uncle Jeff; “only tired and over-excited.”

“Not a bit,” replied Blunt, “I’m all right, I tell you, and I can see clearly now how that trouble came about the cartridges being wet.”

“Indeed!” said Uncle Jeff. “Well, how did it come about?”

“I drowned them with water, of course.”

“You did?” said Stan, staring. “Nonsense!”

“Yes, nonsense!” said Uncle Jeff. “You wouldn’t have done such a thing as that!”

“If I had been in my senses—no. But I was not. I was wildly excited and delirious from my wound, and there was that idea pressing upon me that one of the stink-pots would roll down blazing from the upper floor and explode the cartridges. It was while I was more sane that I sent Wing to you, Lynn, with that message, but as soon as he had gone the trouble increased. I felt that he would not get there in time, and I got up and went round to the back of the warehouse, picked up one of the buckets of water, and while the men in charge of the casks were on the stairs watching you and the others keeping up the firing, I poured the water into the last case of cartridges, chuckling to myself at my cleverness, and saying that there was no fear now.”

“You laughed and said that?” cried Stan sceptically.

“I did. I remember it perfectly now, even to my feeling of satisfaction at having saved the place from all risk of destruction in that way. Yes, and I can remember lying down again and shutting my eyes because I heard Wing coming. Yes, there it all is, as plain as if I were looking at myself now. I can remember, too, the feeling of rest and content that came, and with it the return of the throbbing pain, till I fainted or fell asleep, to wake with my mind quite blank, knowing nothing whatever of my acts, and being ready to join in accusing poor old Wing. But there! it was the act of a man quite off his head, doing about as double-edged an act as was ever committed. Queer—eh, Lynn?”

“Queer? Well, I don’t know what to call it,” said Stan, “but I hope you’ll never do such a thing again.”

“I promise you I will not so long as I escape being shot through the shoulder,” said Blunt, smiling; “but if I am wounded like that I will not answer for the consequences.”

Suppose we leave them there.

Back to Index Next