"To play tennis!" both ladies exclaimed in horror.
"Yes," replied Constance. "Mr. Carteret did not want to go one bit. He was scared. I know. He tried to make all sorts of excuses. It was because he was so scared. I know. He looked just as frightened as he could look. But Miss MacAllister made him go. Isn't she dandy?"
"Constance, quick, run and ask your father to come here!"
When the consul heard what his wife had to tell, he uttered one brief, emphatic word, not loud but deep, grabbed his hat, and ran down the stairs. Breathlessly climbing the steep hill behind, he had just turned the corner of the customs compound when he heard the moan of a shell coming from the direction of the Vipère, which had moved from her former position and was lying well within the mouth of the river. It exploded in the air between the two mission bungalows. A fragment cut its way clean through the cottage roof of Thomson's bungalow, going in at one side and coming out at the other, leaving a great gaping hole in the tiles.
"By Jove!" said the consul to himself, "if that had been a percussion, or if the Frenchman had given it one second longer, Thomson would have been minus a house."
He caught a glimpse of swiftly-moving white figures on his lawn and quickened his pace. He called a cheery greeting to MacKay as he passed and ran down into the little hollow between the missionary's house and his own. Just then he heard Sinclair's strong voice calling:
"Fifteen—love! ... Thirty—love! ... Forty—love! ... Game!"
"What an expert! Just look at the cool, confident way he serves those balls. And we might as well try to stop a French shell with our rackets as return his service. Mr. Carteret, it's your service. Now play up or he'll win this set."
At that moment the consul ran through the gate in the hedge into the midst of the players:
"What the deuce is the meaning of this? Miss MacAllister? Dr. Sinclair?"