“Oh, they must have been flying across the office, uncle, when Wing was nursing Mr Blunt. We didn’t see those upstairs.”
“But a great many did come in?”
“Yes, uncle, and burned great patches in the floor.”
“Come, that’s something; you must take me up and show me.”
“I can’t show you much, uncle,” was the reply, “for the bales have been stacked in their places again.”
“Oh, come! this is disappointing,” cried Uncle Jeff. “No ruins; no wounds but Mr Blunt’s; no burnt-out warehouses! Why, after such a scare I expected to find the whole place crippled. Where’s Wing?”
“Oh, I must have a word here,” said Blunt. “I dare say Master Wing painted the affair up pretty well, but it was as bad as it could be.”
“Why, I thought you were bowled out at the first ball,” said Uncle Jeff sharply.
“So I was; but the other players had their innings, and told me all about it afterwards. Old Lawrence says it was awful.”
“So it was, uncle,” cried Stan; “nothing could have been worse.”