Presently, however, the politician took heart. Had the outlaw not been closely watched, he would have warned him, so that the escape might be brought about, but the Police would certainly trace back that warning to its source—himself. That would never do. A better course would be to urge on the Prophet anew. Demon George might thus be warned and the people be further incited against Hector. He had said that he could not muzzle the paper and had no direct control over it—a lie; but Hector, he argued, did not know it a lie. He could tell Hector that his efforts to silence his Editor friend had failed. And, whether the outlaw was or was not taken, further damage might still be done to Hector. The Prophet could wriggle out of its own trap afterwards, if necessary.
"By God, he hasn't won yet!"
Whereupon he scrawled secret instructions to the Prophet for a renewal of the 'Demon George campaign.'
V
The moon lay white on the barracks and 'Lights Out' had long since sounded. The Marquis, having escaped detection with that unfathomable cunning common to drunken men, climbed in at the open window of his own barrack-room and crept over to his cot—safe!
No-one had been disturbed by his entry. But for the even breathing of his sleeping comrades, all was quiet. His brain was twirling a roseate heaven full of lights and music. He was very happy. He did not feel like going to bed. He wanted to sing. Many tunes and pictures were dancing madly in his head—strains and scenes culled from happenings of the night—from days long past, too. Now he was drinking with a ring of convivial punchers, now with a group of Sandhurst cadets. Ripping place, Sandhurst had been—jolly rags——
The thought of 'rags' suddenly gave him the diabolical idea: 'Haven't had a rag for a hick of a time. Why not now?' But what? What? Suddenly came glorious inspiration. He was said to have once 'shot up' the town. Well, why not——? And Bacchus answered, 'Why not, old chap, why not?'
First—in a colossal struggle—he removed his boots. Then he tip-toed from cot to cot. The moonlight, streaming in, enabled him to see quite plainly and his comrades slept on with miraculous tenacity. From the head of each cot he removed the occupant's weapons—carbine and revolver—and all his ammunition. He heaped the carbines and their ammunition under his own bed. The revolvers he carefully loaded and set in rows on the bed, together with the surplus revolver ammunition. By the time he was finished—it took a long time—he had cornered every weapon in the room.
"By Jove," he told himself joyously, "this'll make old Spit-an'-Polish sit up!"
The Marquis' first shot stirred the hair of the corporal in charge and lodged in the wall behind. The second rang with a bell-like note against the cot of the next man. Then he blazed off a string of shots, each in the general direction of a cot, so that he traversed the whole room. Drunk as he was, the Marquis did not shoot to kill. He aimed only to miss—closely. His aim was wonderfully accurate. Whiskey improved it. In moderation, whiskey often performs such miracles. The Marquis was not 'blind'—merely inebriated.