Chapter Sixteen.
Still Searching.
With a mingling of instinct and the practice of the profession, the sergeant’s two followers brought down their muskets to the present as the door flew wide, presumably to meet the attack of the snakes, but the curled and dried-up skins, so light without the sand that a sharp puff of wind would have blown them away, lay still upon the shelf, and there was no rush for escape made by Godfrey Boyne. The place, full of its litter of odds and ends dear to the young naturalist, and with its open windows, lay open to the gaze of the soldiers, and the sergeant, after a sharp look round, which satisfied him that the place was empty, turned to Waller.
“I thought it meant game, sir,” he said. “Where’s your sarpints?”
“Yonder on the shelf,” said Waller, with a mischievous look in his eyes.
“Yah! Stuffed! Well, sir, we have done; and thank you for being so nice to us over an unpleasant job.”
“Oh, don’t name it, sergeant,” said Waller coolly.
“Right about face, my lads! Forward! March!—Halt!—About that there window—how far is it to the ground?”
“Oh, nice little jump,” said Waller coolly. “About thirty feet, I suppose.”