“Asleep at their posts!” he said mentally. “That deserves punishment.”
He had crept on hands and knees to the edge of the bushes, and paused to contemplate the wide-open mouth of Bane, who lay on his back, and the prominent right ear of Dougall, whose head rested on his left arm. The débris of supper lay around them—scraps of pemmican, pannikins, spoons, knives, and the broken shells of teal-duck eggs which, having been picked up some time before, had gone bad.
Suddenly an inspiration—doubtless from the spirit of mischief—came over Salamander. There was one small unbroken egg on the ground near to Bane’s elbow. Just over his head the branch of a bush extended. To genius everything comes handy and nothing amiss. Salamander tied the egg to a piece of small twine and suspended it to the twig in such fashion that the egg hung directly over Bane’s wide-open mouth. At a glance he had seen that it was possible to lay a light hand on the inner end of the branch, and at the same time bend his mouth over Dougall’s ear. He drew a long breath, for it was a somewhat delicate and difficult, being a duplicate, manoeuvre!
Pressing down the branch very slowly and with exceeding care, he guided the egg into Bane’s mouth. He observed the precise moment when it touched the sleeper’s tongue, and then exploded a yell into Dougall’s ear that nearly burst the tympanum.
Bane’s jaws shut with a snap instantly. Need we—no, we need not! Dougall leaped up with a cry that almost equalled that of Salamander. Both men rushed to the fortress and bounded into it, the one spurting out Gaelic expletives, the other rotten egg and bits of shell. They seized their guns and crouched, glaring through the various loopholes all round with finger on trigger, ready to sacrifice at a moment’s notice anything with life that should appear. Indeed they found it difficult, in their excited condition, to refrain from blazing at nothing! Their friendly foe meanwhile had retired, highly delighted with his success. He had not done with them however. By no means! The spirit of mischief was still strong upon him, and he crept into the bushes to meditate.
“It wass an evil speerut, Shames,” gasped Donald Bane, when he had nearly got rid of the egg. “Did you smell his preath?”
“No, Tonald, it wass not. Spirits are not corporeal, and cannot handle eggs, much less cram them down a man’s throat. It wass the egg you did smell.”
“That may be so, Shames, but it could not be a redskin, for he would be more likely to cram a scalpin’ knife into my heart than an egg into my mouth.”
“Iss it not dreamin’ ye wass, an’ tryin’ to eat some more in your sleep? You wass always fond of overeatin’ yourself—whativer—Tonald.”
Before this question could be answered, another yell of the most appalling and complex nature rang out upon the night-air, struck them dumb, and seemed to crumple up their very hearts.