“So I suppose,” said Uncle Jeff sarcastically; “and of course the wind would be setting in the right direction—that is to say, straight from you and over the enemy’s junks.”
“Of course, uncle,” said Stan confidently.
“Of course! Why, you too sanguine young enthusiast, the chances would be five-and-twenty to one that the wind would not be right on the day the enemy came. Won’t do, Stan. Try again.”
“Oh, I can’t if you go on like that, uncle,” said the lad in an aggrieved tone. “You’re not half such a good listener as Mr Blunt. He thinks a good deal of my ideas.”
“Then it was quite time I came. He’d spoil you. I will not, you may depend. Now then, let’s have a better idea than that.”
“Well, uncle,” said the boy rather grumpily, “I did think something of having a boat always moored among the reeds—one filled with dangerous combustibles—that I could steal up to after the junks had stopped to kill and plunder us, apply a match, and, after lashing the rudder, cause it to float down with the stream right amongst the junks and set them on fire.”
“Splendid idea!” cried Uncle Jeff, clapping his hands.
“You like that, then?” said Stan, brightening up.
“I think the idea would be glorious. Deadly in the extreme to the enemy, but—”
“Oh uncle! don’t say but,” cried the lad, growing crestfallen again.