“Bight away from all help! Not so much as a bottle of quinine at hand!” exclaimed the doctor.
“Ah, that’s a pity,” said Chumbley. “Here, light a fresh cigar, man, and don’t look like that amiable person who pulled Priam’s curtains in the dead of the night. Come, doctor, I thought you fellows were always calm.”
“So we are,” cried the doctor, feeling his own pulse. “Ninety-four! That’s pretty good for this climate. Yes, I’ll take another cigar. But I say, Chumbley, this is very awkward.”
“Would be very awkward, you mean.”
“Yes, of course. And we are all unarmed.”
“Well, not quite all,” said Chumbley. “Being a sort of man-at-arms—a kind of wasp amongst the human insects—I always carry my sting.”
“What! have you anything with you?”
“Pistol and a few cartridges,” replied Chumbley, coolly.
“And I should have had my gun. You know my little double-barrelled Adams, don’t you?”
“Yes; the one with the dent in the stock.”