“Hold on,” I said. “We do have something tangible, for if they disappeared they left their shells behind them.” And I pointed to some cartridge-shells that lay on the ground beside the mail-car. “My theory of aerial bullets won’t do.”
“The shells are as hollow as I feel,” laughed Miss Cullen.
“Your suggestion reminds me that I am desperately hungry,” I said. “Suppose we go back and end the famine.”
Most of the passengers had long since returned to their seats or berths, and Mr. Cullen’s party had apparently done the same, for 218 showed no signs of life. One of my darkies was awake, and he broiled a steak and made us some coffee in no time, and just as they were ready Albert Cullen appeared, so we made a very jolly little breakfast. He told me at length the part he and the Britishers had borne, and only made me marvel the more that any one of them was alive, for apparently they had jumped off the car without the slightest precaution, and had stood grouped together, even after they had called attention to themselves by Lord Ralles’s shots. Cullen had to confess that he heard the whistle of the four bullets unpleasantly close.
“You have a right to be proud, Mr. Cullen,” I said. “You fellows did a tremendously plucky thing, and, thanks to you, we didn’t lose anything.”
“But you went to help too, Mr. Gordon,” added Miss Cullen.
That made me color up, and, after a moment’s hesitation, I said,—
“I’m not going to sail under false colors, Miss Cullen. When I went forward I didn’t think I could do anything. I supposed whoever had pitched into the robbers was dead, and I expected to be the same inside of ten minutes.”
“Then why did you risk your life,” she asked, “if you thought it was useless?”
I laughed, and, though ashamed to tell it, replied, “I didn’t want you to think that the Britishers had more pluck than I had.”