“Well, all I can say is,” said Uncle Jeff some time later, “that you have cleared away wonderfully. But there’s one thing I don’t like. It sticks in my memory very tightly, and it seems to me that it is the one weak spot in our armour if we are again attacked.”
“And what’s that, uncle?” asked Stan, for there was a pause.
“The traitor in the camp, my lad. You can’t go on like this. What is the use of making all kinds of preparations when there is an enemy in the midst who is ready to spoil all and, as it were, sell you to the enemy?”
“You mean about the water poured over the ammunition?” said Blunt, speaking rather excitedly.
“Yes—of course. Now whom do you suspect?”
“At first I thought Wing might be the guilty party.”
“Wing!” cried Uncle Jeff, starting. “Ah, to be sure!” he continued after but a few moments’ thought. “He was my informant, and very eager to tell me all about it. Tried hard, I remember now, to make me understand it must have been some one at the hong. Here, Stan, it’s a long time since I was at school; you’ve only just come away. What’s that French proverb about the man who tries to clear himself making matters worse?”
“He who excuses himself accuses himself,” said Stan promptly.
“Humph! Yes. But it sounds better in French. Here, I don’t like to think old Wing guilty; he has been such a true and faithful servant to the ‘foreign devils,’ as they call us. Besides, he is so much one of us, and has been so well paid and treated. You’ve had no quarrel with him, Blunt?”
“Not the slightest. Always the best of friends. Of course, you know my way—short, sharp, and decisive.”