A cry from Masheesh, at this moment, drew attention for the time from the subject. The baboon darted out of the small tent holding something he had stolen. Luji, with a loud shout, dashed after him. Away went the two round and round, the monkey chattering and screaming, but still firmly grasping the object, which proved to be the captain’s powder-flask.
“You should try your hand, Hughes,” drily remarked the missionary. “Your pace beat that this morning.”
Hardly were the words spoken when, with a scream of delight, the baboon vaulted right over the stooping missionary, using his shoulders for the spring, and alighting close to the fire, dropped the flask just into the centre of the blaze, and then bounding off a few paces, stood jabbering and grimacing.
The tent was only a few yards away.
“Run, Wyzinski,” shouted the soldier, “all our powder is in the tent.” The whole thing was done in a second, and the soldier and missionary scudding down the slope at a tremendous pace the next. Losing his footing, away went Wyzinski, rolling among the stones and bushes, just as the explosion took place.
Luckily, there was little powder in the flask, but the burning embers were blown right and left, and the tent struck by them. The baboon was dreadfully singed, and awfully frightened, and not a beauty before, became literally hideous; but no further harm was done.
“You had better exchange your robes against a subaltern’s epaulettes in the Light Company of the 150th Regiment,” laughed Hughes.
“I’ll think of it,” replied the missionary; “but, Hughes, will you give me a certificate?”
“Most certainly. I can’t hold a candle to you at running away, Wyzinski,” for the soldier thought he had the best of it now.
“Oh, I didn’t mean that sort of a certificate. Will you certify there are no monkeys in your Light Company?” remarked the missionary.