“Wing’s A—Chinaman.”
Several anxious days were passed, during which a sharp lookout was kept for the return of Wing with the ammunition; but still it did not come, and, as Blunt reasonably said, they could not settle down comfortably to invention and forms of defence by schemes until they could feel prepared temporarily for an emergency.
“Once we have two or three cases of cartridges in hand we’ll go to work at our plans. But this waiting takes it out of a man.”
“It is giving you time to get a little stronger,” replied Stan.
“Oh, bother that! I could grow stronger fast enough if my mind were quite at rest I’m beginning to think that poor old Wing has come to grief, and if he doesn’t reach here by to-morrow night I shall make up a little cargo and send Mao with an urgent despatch to the principals. It’s growing serious. Here, come and let us plan what to send.”
“You had better rest patiently,” said Stan. “Who’s to rest patiently with not a dozen rifle-cartridges on the premises?”
“You,” said Stan, smiling.
“What! Do you know the enemy may even now be on their way to make a fresh attack?”
“No, they mayn’t,” replied Stan.
“What! How do you know?”