“Orderly!” shouted the admiral, turning as red as a turkey cock with rage, “direct the pick and shovel squad at once to level that construction, and bring that young gentleman here to me,” pointing out the window to Young Brydell. Grubb then saw what was up.
In the middle of the great lawn, just in front of the admiral’s house, was a dirt fort, constructed with no inconsiderable skill. The turf for about twenty feet square had been ruthlessly torn up to make the glacis, and over it floated a small American flag about as big as a pocket handkerchief.
On top of the glacis stood Young Brydell with a miniature rifle pointed straight at the admiral’s window. Around him lay the bodies of:—
I. Reginald Cunliffe, the captain’s only child and a mother’s darling, who had been repeatedly told not to play with Young Brydell for fear he would get hurt. At that moment the mother’s darling was representing a wounded man and, rolling over in a new jacket was asking in feeble tones for water.
II. Jack Sawyer, the doctor’s son, who personated a dead man with intermittent returns to life to see how the thing was going.
III, IV, V. Dick, Rob, and Steve, young gentlemen belonging to the yard who obeyed Young Brydell implicitly, although at least two years older than he, and who submitted to pose as Indians slain by his victorious hand.
VI. Micky O’Toole, the washerwoman’s boy, who, although directed to fall dead at the first fire, had failed to do so and was crawling forward on all fours, with a knife between his teeth and a tomahawk in his hand to assassinate Young Brydell.
Grubb double-quicked it downstairs, but not so fast that the admiral was not right on his heels. The pick and shovel squad were just passing as Grubb called out to them:—
“The admiral says as how that there construction is to be leveled at once”—
“And that young gentleman sent immediately to me!” bawled the admiral from the doorway.