Even through the make-up, fear was written large on the face of old Kitterson, who played the orderly.
“We’re in for a rough time,” said Eliphalet, speaking from the text.
There came a sharp, insistent crackle—almost merged into a single report. A shelf of twelve-bore cartridges had gone up next door.
Eliphalet took a cigarette from his case and lit it steadily.
“Why, man,” he said lightly, between the puffs, “you are not afraid—are you?” He stretched out his hand and gripped old Kitterson’s arm with a warning pressure.
“We’ve been through too much together to show the white feather now.”
Half his words were lost in the roar and crackle from outside.
Captain Raeburn touched his friend’s arm.
“Altering the lines, aren’t they?” he queried.
“Damn good effect of something burning. You can almost smell the smoke.”