“Why, Stan, boy,” he cried, “we never thought we were going to send you out of the Hai-Hai frying-pan into the Nang Ti fire. But you were not burnt?”
He held the lad back at arm’s-length and uttered a loud puff like a whale getting rid of its confined breath.
“No, I can see you were not. Eyes bright, colour fresh, and hearty as can be. Hah! that’s a comfort. We shouldn’t have sent you if we had known.—Here, Blunt,” he continued, “do you call this management, bringing down all the ruffians of the river to attack the place! Why, hang it, man! you do look as if you have had more than your share of trouble. You’ve lost pounds since I saw you last. Coming round again, though, I can see.”
“Yes; there’s nothing much wrong now,” was the reply as the pair shook hands heartily. “The wound’s healing up nicely, thanks to Wing here.—Well, Wing, how are you?”
“Badly,” was the reply. “Been fletting.”
“Fretting? What about?”
“Misteh Blunt and young Lynn. S’posee pilate come back and Wing not bling ca’tlidge.”
“But you’ve brought them now?” said Blunt eagerly.
“Yes, plenty big box full. Bling Misteh Jeffley too. All leady fightee when pilate come.”
“And a very welcome recruit if needed,” said Blunt, smiling. “But we don’t want any more of that work—at any rate till I get strong again.—You’ve heard, Mr Lynn, how I caved in and left your nephew to fight the battle?”