Captain Reginald Pierce stirred uneasily, sat up suddenly in his bed, and knocked his high forehead against the iron bar that supported a canopy of mosquito netting. As he rubbed his temples and said things to himself, he listened with growing anger, and began forming a plan of campaign. There was a pitcher of water on a table in his room, a bulldog in the yard, and a valiant assistant in the form of Hadji Sing, his Hindu servant. Getting softly out of bed, the captain prepared for his attack on the enemy.
When Carl climbed over the wall he had dropped into the yard at the foot of a lemon tree. He had jarred the tree and a half-ripe lemon had dropped on him. This omen should have sent him away and postponed the serenade, but it did not.
After slapping at the mosquitoes and drawing his sleeve across his eyes, Carl went on picking the guitar, and singing manfully.
Just then the water descended. It was well aimed and Carl caught the whole of it. Probably there was no more than a couple of gallons, but Carl, for the moment, was under the impression that it was a tidal wave.
His song died out in a wheezy gurgle, and, for a moment, he was stunned. Then, suddenly, he realized that he had been insulted. Ysabel Sixty, the beautiful maiden who had captured his young fancy, had deliberately thrown—— But his thoughts were interrupted by a voice from the window, a voice that certainly was not Miss Sixty’s.
“By Jove! I’ll throw the pitcher at you, fellow, if you don’t clear out!”
Carl was dazed. He knew, then, that he had made a mistake. While he stood there, half drowned and trying to find his voice, the bark of an approaching dog came from the rear of the house.
Self-preservation is the first law of nature, and instantly it flashed over Carl that if he wanted to save himself he would have to run. Without standing on the order of his going, he whirled and fled toward the fence. The dog was close and rapidly drawing closer. Behind the dog came a white-turbaned figure that was urging the brute onward with strange language.
The front fence looked altogether too high for Carl, and he turned and made for a wall at the side of the yard. Just as he gained the foot of the barrier the dog was snapping at his heels.
“Dere!” he whooped, turning and smashing the guitar over the dog’s head; “how you like dot, hey?”