When Gilbert’s words were translated the three Russians scowled. As a matter of fact, they had not been sent out at all, but were on a private looting expedition, and had expected to obtain a rich prize in the chest of tea, which weighed at least a hundred pounds. One of the number looked as if he wished to fight the young lieutenant, but the determined look in Gilbert’s eyes held him in check.
“Be it so. We will get an order,” said the ring-leader, in Russian; and he sullenly withdrew, followed by his comrades. Once outside, they lost no time in hurrying for the Russian camp, fearful of being followed and reported.
“That is the sixth time they have attempted to loot this warehouse,” said the elderly man, drawing a long sigh of relief on finding the intruders gone. “If I didn’t keep watch day and night, I shouldn’t have a cash’s worth of goods left.”
“I am glad I was of service to you,” answered Gilbert; and then he added curiously, “Can this be Mr. Amos Bartlett?”
“That is my name, lieutenant. But you have the advantage of me.” And Amos Bartlett looked at Gilbert carefully.
“We have never met, Mr. Bartlett; but I have often heard of you, and you knew my father and my mother quite well. My name is Gilbert Pennington, and my father was Jefferson Pennington.”
“Jefferson Pennington’s son! Is it possible?” The elderly gentleman held out his hand. “I am more than delighted to meet you.” And he wrung Gilbert’s hand warmly. The heartiness of the grasp was one Gilbert never forgot; and, as he looked into Amos Bartlett’s eyes, he realized that he had met one who could be trusted and who would be his friend.
“Perhaps you will think it queer, but I have been thinking of you a good deal lately,” said the young lieutenant. “And it was partly to try to find you that I was anxious for this campaign in China.”
“Yes? You excite my curiosity. But come into my house, and I will introduce you to my wife and daughter. I wished to send them to Taku for safety, but neither would leave me.”
Trembling with excitement over what had just occurred, Amos Bartlett led the way out of the warehouse, the door of which he bolted and locked, and then took Gilbert to the house next door, a comfortable residence, built in the form of a hollow square, and two stories high. In the centre was a tastefully laid out garden; and here, resting in hammocks, were Mrs. Bartlett, a lady nearly as old as her husband, and Jennie, her daughter, a girl of fifteen.