“Father, where is the cartridge paper? There are no more cartridges made up.”
“I don’t know, mother,” shouted Mr. Ashley successfully dodging a bullet that came through a shutter. “Ask nevvy.”
But Fairfax turned a look of consternation on his aunt.
“If there are no more cartridges in the pouch we are done for,” he said. “There’s plenty of powder and ball, but I don’t know where to lay hand to wadding.”
“Any sort of paper will do, Mary,” interposed Nurse Johnson. “Get a book.”
Paper was a scarce commodity in those times, and few houses, especially country houses, kept it in quantity. Books were rarer still, so now Mrs. Ashley spoke with the calmness of despair:
“There isn’t a book on the place. I let——”
“Wait a minute,” cried Peggy. “I have one.” She ran up the stairs as she finished speaking and soon returned, a book in her hand.
“Oh, Peggy,” wailed Sally, “’tis thy diary. And how will the girls ever know what hath befallen us without it?”