“It was,” admitted Dean, without enthusiasm.
“When you shot at my shoulder, you had a bigger mark.”
“Oh, not so very much,” growled Dean. “My ears are celebrated for their size.”
“You’d better wrap it up in this handkerchief,” commented Stranleigh, rolling it up in a ball, and flinging it towards Jim. The wounded man tied it round his voluminous ear.
“And now,” said Stranleigh, “get through with your parley as soon as possible, then go to Miss Armstrong, who will very expertly attend to your hurt. But in order to win the privilege of surgical treatment, you must recognise that you are a prisoner.”
“A prisoner?” echoed Dean.
“Certainly. You must give me your word you will say nothing to Miss Armstrong to show that I have had a hand in the game. Make whatever excuse you like for the disaster, and then get back to the bunk house, tell your fellows the condition of the game as far as we have gone. I will allow you five minutes after your return to show those chaps the letter ‘S’ I have perforated in the door. They are a very unbelieving lot, and I wish to gain their affection and respect. Without hurting anybody I mean to prove that I am a dead shot. I’m well provisioned here, and prepared to stand a siege. Until Mr. Armstrong returns, not one of you will be allowed outside the châlet. Don’t be misled by the fact that you outnumber me six to one. I hold a magazine rifle, possess an ample supply of ammunition, and have just given evidence of the rapidity with which reloading can be performed.”
“Yes,” said Dean, meditatively, “your position would be bull strong and hog tight, if you had a chum with you who could shoot as well as you do. But as it is, you’ve nobody to relieve you, and a man must sleep. It will only take one of us to defeat you. We’ve no magazine rifles and don’t need none. I’ll undertake the job myself.”
“How do you propose to do it?”
“That would be telling,” said Jim, craftily.