"Give me Number 27, quick!" commanded Dennis Deventer. "I know who that man is, and I am sorry, but he must be stopped."
Jack Jaikes placed the rifle in the old man's hand, and everybody held their breaths. The lintel of the fitting-shed protected the fire-raiser a little. We could see him thrusting with his torch till the sparks and smoke almost enveloped him. Then he threw down the torch and ran heavily back. He took hold of the first jar of petroleum which had been abandoned in the flight, and was hastening back with it when Number 27 spoke. The man appeared to gather himself up. Then he made a spring forwards, spilling the oil in a gush in the direction of the smouldering torch.
But there came no answering burst of flame. The distance was too great. Dennis watched a moment after reloading, then shook his head gloomily.
"He was a good workman too—yet that does not help a man when once the maggot begins to gnaw underneath the brain pan."
The next day broke fresh and bright, with only that faint touch of Camargue mist which the sun dissolves in his first quarter of an hour.
From the roof and northern balcony we could hear a curious thudding sound in the direction of the moulding-works.
"The steam hammer," said Jack Jaikes; "pity we did not think to put her out of gear."
When he came down the chief listened a moment with his better ear turned towards the sound. Then he smiled ironically.
"They are trying to get a big field-gun ready for us. Luckily we have sent off the last we had in store. But they can't do it. At least they can't do it in time. There are good workmen and capital fitters among them, but who is to do their calculations?"
"No matter," grumbled Jack Jaikes, half to himself, "they will go by rule of thumb, and though their gun would not pass army tests, they will make it big enough and strong enough to drive a solid shell in at one side of this house and out at the other."