“And you, Drummond? But your face—blackened. Were you in that explosion I heard?”
“Yes; I helped to pop off the powder.”
“Helped!” cried Roberts. “Why, you placed the powder-bag and fired the fuse.”
“Well, what of that? Some one had to do it. I wasn’t hurt there, though, old man. It was in setting fire to the store and coaxing it into a blaze, for the blessed wood refused to burn. Spoiled my lovely looks a bit—eh? But I say—it’s harder work than you would think for to burn a— I say! Bracy, old chap!—Why, he’s asleep!”
“Fast,” said Roberts, looking wonderingly at their friend, who had sunk back on his rough pillow, formed of a doubled-up greatcoat, and was breathing deeply, with his face looking peaceful and calm.
“Here, I say, you, Bill Gedge,” cried Drummond; “this can’t be right. Go and fetch the Doctor.”
“No, sir; it’s all right, sir. The Doctor was here half-an-hour ago. He was fast as a top then; but he heard the Doctor speaking to me, and roused up while he had his wounds looked at. What d’yer think o’ that, sir?”
He drew a small, ragged scrap of something from his pocket, and held it out before the two officers.
“Nothing,” said Roberts shortly; “but I don’t like Mr Bracy’s looks. This can’t be right.”
“Doctor says it is, sir, and that it’s exhorschon. He’s to sleep as much as he can. You see, he had a horful night of it, sir, just when he wasn’t fit.”