“Bring up a lantern, some one,” cried Wyatt out of the window.—“But, Dick, my lad, no one could get to your window from below.”
“I told you he came from above.”
“That you didn’t.”
“Well, I meant to. He lowered himself from the top.”
“May I come in, gentlemen?” said a familiar voice outside the door.
“Yes, yes, come in,” cried Wyatt; and Acting-lieutenant Stubbs, in shirt and trousers, entered, with a drawn sabre in one hand, and a lantern in the other.
“Hah!” cried Ram Dad, making two jumps over the floor of the disordered room, to come down like a frog upon something before rising up again and displaying a peculiar-looking, glittering knife. “Smell of oil, sahib,” he said.
Wyatt caught the keen, sharp-pointed weapon, and raised it to his nostrils.
“By Jove!” he said hoarsely. “Dick, dear boy, you’ve had a narrow escape. Dropped, I suppose, in the tussle.”
“And look here,” said Dick eagerly; “my pyjamas are soaked with the beastly stuff.”