“Look at that,” said Blunt, smiling. “Nice sort of a sentry that!”
“Why, he’s asleep!” whispered Stan.
Asleep the poor fellow was, and no wonder. Duty to his employers had a strong hold, but nature and exhaustion, after hours of baking and fasting upon the roof with straining eyes, were stronger; and but a very short time before the appearance of his European masters, Wing’s head, in spite of a desperate struggle to keep it firm, had begun to nod, then to make long, slow, graceful bows at the western sky, till at last, as if the strain upon his eyes in watching had affected the poor fellow’s brain with an uncontrollable drowsiness, his head went right down, to rest between his knees. There he crouched as if in a saddle; and then he was motionless, and looking wonderfully like a beautifully carved finial placed by a cunning builder as an ornament to the great gable-end.
“Poor beggar! It was too bad to leave him so long,” said Blunt. “I suppose I mustn’t bully him. But suppose the enemy had been coming down the river and had surprised us.”
“We should have been to blame for not having more sentries on the lookout.”
“Right, my young Solon,” said Blunt; “but it would have been a startler for him, and a lesson too, if he had been woke up by a shot.”
“Yes, that’s right,” said Stan, smiling at a thought which flashed across his brain.
“What are you laughing at?” said Blunt sharply. “I was thinking how it would make him jump if I fired a shot now.”
“Ah, to be sure! Slip a cartridge into your rifle and fire in the air.”
“I am loaded,” said Stan, who began to repent of his words.