“Then look here,” said the Doctor; “call for your volunteers—or for one volunteer at a time. You see, with their cunning and subtlety they know beforehand that we must be ready to do anything to get at the stores, and consequently they keep the strictest watch, with spearmen ready to let fly at any poor wretch who approaches either of the buildings.”
“Yes, yes, we know that, Doctor,” said the Resident peevishly.
“Then why don’t you meet cunning with cunning?” replied the Doctor. “Surely the Major can pick up some clever, sharp fellow who will crawl in the darkness past the enemy’s pickets and bring back something, if it’s only one sack of meal.”
“That would be better than nothing, Doctor.—We’ll try; eh, Major?”
“Of course; of course.”
The little council of war was being held in the hottest part of the day, when the attacking enemy seemed to have drawn off for a while amongst the trees, and most of the beleaguered were grouped around in the shadow of veranda and tree to listen to the discussion.
“Well,” said the Resident, “I can’t ask either of my native servants who have been true to us to risk his life for us. We should never see them again, for the enemy would be sure to make an extra effort to spear them.”
“Quite out of the question, Sir Charles,” said the Doctor.—“Now, Major, we must look to you again.—What’s that, Mrs Smithers?”
“I was only going to say, sir, that my Joe is a big, strong fellow, and he’ll volunteer to try and get a sack of flour to-night.”
“Eh? What’s that?” cried the private.