Next morning he brought two sticks, when he came to my room, which he crossed on the fire hearth, and when he turned up at night-time he had evidently been to the canteen, for he was pot-valiant and I could see he had a bottle with him.
“I suppose you will be afraid to stay in the rooms alone,” I said, as I left for dinner.
“I will not,” said he; but I saw the blue funk rising in him. It was a Friday.
“Did you eat meat to-day?” I asked.
“I did that,” he replied, “and I will.”
“Well, God help you,” I said. “It’s great danger you are in this night.”
It was midnight when the lieutenant, fully got up in a most perfect fancy dress, and looking his part to perfection, appeared in the mess hut. In his hand he carried a few inches of time fuse, and also a huge fork, known in the service as the tormentor. The cook uses it to take the men’s meat out of the boilers. We all crept up to my quarters, which consisted of a hut with two rooms in it, in the front one of which was the victim. To light the fuse and pass it under the door was the work of a moment, then to open the latter and step in took no longer. Mike, who had been absorbing courage from the bottle, had fallen asleep, but was waked up by a prod from the tormentor. He woke with a growl of rage, that changed into a yell of consternation, when he saw the terrific figure regarding him through the sulphury smoke of the fuse.
“Mike O’Leary,” said a deep voice, “I’ve come for you.”
Poor Mike, who had fallen back open-mouthed, with the sweat of fear trickling off him, whimpered: “Oh no, good Mr Devil; wait for the master.”