“Trust me, sir,” said Dickenson coolly.—“Ah, would you slip back into the paraffin. Come out,” he continued, apostrophising the wick he was pricking at. “Phew! How nasty it makes one’s fingers smell! Bravo! Got him at last.”
“Tut, tut, tut!” ejaculated the captain impatiently.
“Wait till I’ve opened the wick a little more. That’s it! Here, what am I to wipe my fingers on?”
“Oh, never mind your fingers, man,” cried Captain Roby.
“But they’re quite slippery, sir.”
“Rub ’em on my sleeve, sir,” growled Sergeant James.
“Thankye, sergeant, but I’ve just polished them on my own.”
Click! click! went the lamp as it was thrust back into the lantern, and there was once more the sound of men drawing their breath hard—a sound that was checked suddenly as the last match was heard to tinkle in the silver box.
“Got him!” said Dickenson audibly as he talked to himself. “Now then, ready with the lantern?” he said aloud.
“Yes, sir.”