From Headquarters: Odd Tales Picked up in the Volunteer Service

by James A. Frye

"Perhaps we can pull it out," he muttered, eying the columns of figures upon the crumpled bit of paper; "perhaps we can; but it'll be cruelly close! 'H' is good for almost anything up to five points over centres, and—unless I can get more than I think I can out of Johnny—we're not liable to run much above that. Confound Harvey! Why couldn't he pick out a more convenient time for breaking himself?"

Here Pollard guiltily started, sprang to his feet, and hastily began to throw off his garments, for the clock in the hall outside had begun to sound off the first of the twelve slow strokes of midnight. "I'm better at preaching than at practising," he thought, grinning at the remembrance of his parting injunctions to his junior; "I've broken two-thirds of the rules I laid down for Johnny. Well, I'm an old hand at this business, and even if I've wasted a half-hour or so I shall get enough sleep to put me into shape," with which consoling reflection he took a long, parting pull at his pipe, shook the ashes from it, put out the light in the Den, and went into his bedroom adjoining.

Taking a revolver from the drawer of the bureau, he tucked it under his pillow; and after locking the door, leading from the chamber into the hall, kicked his slippers across the room, finished his disrobing, and tumbled into bed. "There it comes!" he drowsily murmured, as a stronger gust of wind was followed by a few scattering drops, and then by a driving dash of rain. "Well, it'll rain itself out before morning; to-morrow's got to be a good day. H'm! it's pretty quiet out here! I'm sick and tired of this suburban business; think I'll have to set up bachelor-rooms in town, after the family gets back." And with this resolve—which he later carried into effect—he fell asleep, with the fingers of one hand lightly and comfortably resting upon the butt of his pistol.

For more than an hour the rain fell heavily; then, as suddenly as it had begun, it ceased. With it the wind died away, leaving a silence so intense that when the hall clock gave out two resonant strokes the sound echoed and reëchoed through the house. Ten minutes later the deep quiet was broken by a sharp crack, as of splintering wood, and then, for a time, all again was still.

Now, Pollard sleeps lightly, and the unusual sound, insignificant though it was, started him up upon his elbow, with eyes wide open and ears strained to catch the slightest creak or jar. Three minutes passed. He was about to relax his motionless position of listening, when there came to his ear a muffled noise that made him slip cautiously, revolver in hand, from bed.

"Shoving up a sash, by thunder!" he said to himself. "It's lucky that I came out, instead of going to a hotel as I thought of doing. Let's see what's going on."

He crept to the door, pressed his ear to the thin panel, and listened; but after a few seconds he straightened up, and disgustedly addressed himself thus: "See here, Pollard—Captain Pollard!—what sort of soldier are you? Your heart's thumping so that you can't hear anything else, and your knees are about as near wobbling as they well can be without doing it! I know you're not afraid—but what is the matter with you?" Again he put his ear to the door, and this time distinctly heard from below sounds which plainly indicated that some one was at work in the dining-room.

"Now, I'd give something," thought the silent listener at the door, "to know just how my side of this campaign ought to be conducted. In the first place, I'd be a heap sight more courageous if I had on my trousers and shoes. I'm no Highlander; I'm just an ordinary citizen-soldier—and if I've got to go into action I'd much prefer to form for the attack in less light-marching-order than this. But if I leave the door—confound it all!—I'll lose touch with the enemy. I want my clothes, but I must know what's being done down there."

Still keeping to his post at the door he noiselessly cocked and uncocked his weapon, in order to make sure that the cylinder freely revolved. Below, for a moment, all was quiet; then came a sound which Pollard interpreted to be the metallic clink of hastily gathered silverware. "That'll keep 'em busy for a moment," he thought, leaving the door, "and I'll have time to put on my armor. There isn't much stuff in the sideboard—only a few spoons and forks. Lucky that we sent the bulk of the silver in to the vaults! Here are my trousers—and here's one slipper—where in glory's the mate to it? Oh, if I only find it I'll make a vow to put my foot-gear, after this, under my pillow every night!" For an instant longer he cautiously pawed around in the darkness, but the missing slipper refused to be found, and so, half-shod, he crept back to the door to resume his listening.