"There is a gypsy camp in the grove. I perceive their fires among the trees."
"You are mistaken, Captain Bragg. There are no gypsies within a hundred miles of us. No doubt Seddon has kindled a fire with dry sticks. Let us go on."
They now entered the grove, and Bragg stood still with a look of amazement. At twelve paces apart were two fires, each kept alive by a negro, who was busily employed in piling on fuel. Over each fire was an iron pot filled with water, in a state of active ebullition. In the space between the two fires was Tom Seddon, walking to and fro with his hands behind his back, giving directions to his sable assistants who had charge of the pots.
"By the powers of mud!" exclaimed Bragg, "what does this mean?"
"It means," said Toney, "that everything is prepared, and that we are only waiting for the arrival of Botts. Tom, have you got the guns ready?"
"Here they are," said Tom, producing two tin tubes painted black and about the size of a musket-barrel. Each had a rod projecting from one end and a nozzle on the other. Seddon handed one of them to Bragg, saying, "Here is your weapon, captain."
"What is this?" inquired Bragg.
"It is your gun," said Seddon.
"Gun—gun! Do you call this a gun?" said Bragg.
"I most certainly do," said Seddon.