“I’ll put a stopper on his little game,” said Fitzgerald hastily to me. “Ready! present! fire!” and he hurled the heavy sponge with admirable aim straight at the dusky little figure; whilst I darted forward with a sort of Red Indian war-whoop, waving the knotted towel over my head.
The sponge landed with a splosh full upon the head of the individual it was intended for, and the latter staggered and gave a shout of dismay and disgust as the highly-unpleasant projectile came into contact with him.
“Good shot!” I cried exultingly. The next moment I recoiled in horror, and Fitzgerald turned deadly pale, for we recognized in our unlucky victim the short but sturdy Mr. Triggs, the gunner, who, being a very early riser, had taken it into his head to emerge from his tent and endeavour to make out the Rattler through a pair of night-glasses. How would he take our explanation that we had mistaken him for the drummer-boy tooting on a bugle?
Before we had time to think or apologize for our mistake, the sponge was sent hurtling back through the air by the muscular arm of Mr. Triggs. I was relieved to see that it was aimed at the real delinquent, Fitzgerald, and not at me.
“O you mischievous middies!” shouted the gunner, running towards us; “you’re always up to some tomfoolery or other!”
Fitzgerald saw the sponge flying towards him, and tried to dodge it, but as ill luck would have it trod with his bare foot upon a sharp stone. The pain was so great that it brought him to the ground; but in trying to save himself he threw out his arms and they unfortunately encountered me, and I felt myself seized in a grip which there was no shaking off. In a moment we were both sprawling upon the ground, arms and legs inextricably mixed up in a sort of “limb hotch-potch.”
The gunner, chuckling with delight at our misadventure, now came running up, his hair and face dripping from the effects of his lately-inflicted “cold pig.”
“If I don’t pay you youngsters out, my name ain’t Timothy Triggs!” he exclaimed; “and ’tis a grand opportunity I’ve got,” and so saying he snatched the knotted towel out of my hand, and began belabouring us both with it with remarkable muscular energy.
“Stop, stop, stop!” I yelled; “we mistook you for the drummer, and are awfully sorry, Mr. Triggs!”
Whack, whack, whack! The blows fell with wonderful regularity and with marvellous impartiality, first on Fitzgerald and then on me.