The man on the bunk gave a chuckling laugh. “You seem wise,” he replied, “and if you do just what I tell you you’ll prove you are. You’ve got a gun, of course, in that holster of yours? Well, when I give the word, you will unbuckle the belt, and fling it pistol and all under the bunk here. No tricks, mind you. If your hand strays an inch from the buckle, I fire, and I warn you that I am a dead shot.... Now you can get to work.”
The corporal dropped his hands to his belt, and as his fingers worked at the stiff buckle, wondered if he might run the risk of trying for his pistol.
“Quick! You’re too long!” cried the man in the bunk. Roger Bracknell hesitated for a second. His fingers fumbled at the buckle, then the belt swung loose in his hands.
“Throw it!” came the command in a peremptory voice.
The corporal threw it along the floor and it slid to the edge of the bunk, then his cousin laughed again.
“‘Wisdom is justified of her children.’ If you had a pious upbringing, bobby, you will recognize the Scripture. And now having got rid of your arsenal, you can sit down at the table, and put your hands upon it. That will be easier for you than standing there trying to touch the roof, but I warn you again—no monkey tricks or—”
The pistol moved significantly, and the corporal moved towards the rough table, constructed out of a packing case.
“Keep your hands up, and shove that stool forward with your feet.”
The “stool” referred to was a log of wood, which as the corporal recognized, would prove a very good missile if a man had time to lift and throw it. Evidently his mentor realized that also, and was taking no chances, so, still at the pistol point, Corporal Bracknell pushed the log forward to the table, and then on his captor’s instructions seated himself with his arms resting on the table.
“Now,” said the sick man, with a short laugh, “we can talk in peace.”