“Dead?” said Lennox in a hoarse whisper.
“Yes, sir—dead. Horrid! Some one must have crept up behind him with a blanket and thrown it over him while some one else used an iron bar. He couldn’t have spoken a word after the first blow.”
“But why do you say that?” said Dickenson. “I understand the sentry was found dead, but—”
“There was the blanket and the iron bar, sir—the one over him and the other at his side. I don’t call that fair fighting, sir; do you?”
The answer consisted of a sharp drawing in of the breath; and the officers turned away to examine the mischief done by the explosion, the backs of two houses having been blown right in.
“Well,” said Dickenson dryly, “it’s awkward, because they’ve got to be made up again; but one can’t say they’re spoiled.”
“Not spoiled?” said Lennox, looking wonderingly at the speaker.
“No; they were so horribly straight and blank and square before. They do look a little more picturesque now. Oh, he was a wicked wretch who invented corrugated iron!”
“Nonsense!” said Lennox.
“But it does keep the wet out well, sir,” put in the sergeant. “I don’t know what we should have done sometimes without it.”