Hemming, the adventurer

CHAPTER IX.

MR. CUDDLEHEAD ARRIVES

Mr. Cuddlehead's trip, though free from serious accident, had been extremely trying. The barcassa had cramped his legs, and the smell of the native cooking, in so confined a space, had unsettled his stomach. He had been compelled to wait three days in the uninteresting village at the mouth of the Plado, unable to hurry the leisurely crew of the launch. But at last the undesirable journey came to an end, and with a sigh of relief he issued from beneath the smoke-begrimed awning, and stretched his legs on the little wharf at Pernamba. He looked at the deserted warehouses along the river-front, and a foreboding of disaster chilled him. The afternoon lay close and bright in the unhealthy valley, and the very peacefulness of the scene awoke a phantom of fear in his heart. What if the President were a man of the world after all, with a knowledge of men and the signs on their faces? Why, then, good-bye to all hope of the family circle.

A black boy accosted Cuddlehead, awaking him from his depressing surmises. The nigger gabbled in the language of the country. Then he pointed at the traveller's bag.

"Take it, by all means," said Cuddlehead.

There is one hostelry in Pernamba, on a side street behind the military stables. It is small and not very clean. To this place the boy led Cuddlehead, and at the door demanded five hundred reis—the equivalent of sixpence. Cuddlehead doubled the sum, for after all he had done very well of late, and a favourable impression is a good thing to make in a new stamping-ground, even on a nigger. The proprietor of the inn bowed him to the only habitable guest-chamber. Here he bathed, as well as he could with two small jugs of water and his shaving-soap, and then changed into a suit of clean white linen. With a cigarette between his lips and a light rattan in his hand, Cuddlehead was himself again. He swaggered into the narrow street and started in search of the President's villa. He passed a group of soldiers puffing their cigarettes in a doorway, who stared after him with interest and some misgivings. "Was the place to be invaded by Englishmen?" they wondered. He saw a brown girl of attractive appearance, rolling cigars beside an open window. He entered the humble habitation, and, after examining the samples of leaf, in sign language ordered a hundred cigars. Then he embraced the girl, and was promptly slapped across the face and pushed out of the shop.

"What airs these d—n niggers put on," he muttered, "but maybe I was a bit indiscreet."

Here, already, was the hand of Hemming against him, though he did not know it; for Hemming, also, had bought cigars from the girl, and had treated her as he treated all women, thereby establishing her self-respect above the attentions of men with eyes like Cuddlehead's.

Cuddlehead found the gates open to the President's grounds without much trouble, and was halted by the sentry. He produced his card-case. The sentry whistled. The corporal issued from the guard-house, with his tunic open and his belt dangling.

Just then Captain Santosa entered from the street, with, in the metaphorical phrase of a certain whist-playing poet, "a smile on his face, and a club in his hand." He swore at the corporal, who retreated to the guard-house, fumbling at his buttons. He bowed to Cuddlehead, and glanced at the card.

"You would like to see the President?" he said. "Then I will escort you to the door." He caught up his sword and hooked it short to his belt, wheeled like a drill-sergeant, and fitted his stride to Cuddlehead's.

Mr. Tetson received the visitor in his airy office. He seemed disturbed in mind, wondering, perhaps, if this were a dun from some wholesale establishment on the coast. He had been working on his books all the morning, and had caught a glimpse of ruin, like a great shadow, across the tidy pages. But he managed to welcome Cuddlehead heartily enough.

"You must stay to dinner, sir,—pot-luck,—very informal, you know," he said, hospitably. He leaned against the desk and passed his hand across his forehead. He could not keep his mind from working back to the sheets of ruled paper.

"Ten thousand," he pondered, "ten thousand for April alone, and nothing to put against it. The army wanting its pay, and robbing me of all I have. Gregory's coal bill as long as my leg. Sugar gone to the devil!" He sighed, mopped his face, and looked at Cuddlehead, who all the while had been observing him with furtive, inquiring eyes. He offered a yellow cigar, and lit one himself.

"Excuse me a moment," he said. "I have something to see to. Here are some English papers. I'll be back immediately, Mr. Cuddlehead, and then maybe we can have a game of billiards."

He went hurriedly from the room.

"You are a foolish old party," remarked Cuddlehead to the closed door, "and, no doubt, you'll be all the easier for that. Hope your daughter is a better looker, that's all."

He tossed the offensive cigar into the garden, and seated himself in the chair by the desk. His courage was growing.

At the hall door Mr. Tetson met Hemming entering. The commander was booted and spurred.

"Are you busy?" inquired the President. "There's a visitor in here."

The Englishman glared.

"Yes, sir, I am busy," he replied. "I've caught my command in seven of their thieving tricks, and have ridden thirty miles to do it. I've told the whole regiment what I think of them, and now I must dine at the mess, to see that they don't concoct any schemes to murder me."

"Haven't you time for a game of billiards with Mr. Cuddlehead?" asked Mr. Tetson.

"No, sir, I have not," replied Hemming, crisply, and tramped away to change his clothes. "The old ass," he muttered, under his breath.

Dinner that night was a dull affair. Hemming and Hicks were both absent from the table. Cuddlehead had excellent manners, and all the outward signs of social grace, but a warning was marked on his face. The President tried to be entertaining, but the terror of an impending disturbance, and even of ruin, hung over him. Mrs. Tetson, guessing somewhat of her husband's troubles, sat pale and fearful. Marion was polite, with a politeness that, after two or three essays of gallantry on Cuddlehead's part, left him inwardly squirming. After dinner Miss Tetson described the visitor to Hicks, mentioning the horrible mouth, the shifting eyes, and the odious attentions.

"He must be pretty bad, for you to talk about him," said Valentine, in wonder.

"Oh, if I had never seen men like you and Mr. Hemming," she answered, "he would not seem so utterly ridiculous."

Hicks was in a chair by the window, and Marion was perched on the arm of it. His eyes were desperate. Hers were bright and daring. Her mouth was tremulous.

"I can understand your admiration for Hemming," he said. "He is the best chap on earth, barring only you."

Marion smiled.

"I wonder," he continued, presently, "I wonder if—that was all a dream?"

"What?" she asked.

"I wish I could see you," he said. "I believe you are laughing at me up there."

"I am laughing," she replied, "but I don't know why exactly."

"At my stupidity, perhaps."

"You are certainly very stupid."

"No, I'm a coward."

"What are you afraid of?"

He leaned back as far as he could, trying to see her face.

"I am afraid you pity me—and don't love me," he said.

He breathed hard after that, as if he had run a mile.

"I am not modest enough to pity you," she said, softly, "though no doubt you are deserving of pity."

"Marion," he whispered, "for God's sake, don't. I'm too blind with anxiety to read riddles. Tell me straight—do you love me? Have I even the ghost of a chance?"

"Do you believe in ghosts?" asked she, with trembling laughter, and, bending forward, with a hand on either of his thin shoulders, she pressed her cheek to his.

While love had his innings in the sick-room, below curiosity led the feet of Mr. Cuddlehead toward the officers' quarters on the outskirts of the town. The night was fine, and not oppressively close. A breeze from the hills made liquid stir in the higher foliage. Cuddlehead felt in his blood a hint of something unusual, as he took his way through the President's wide gardens, and out to the road. No sentinel paced, sabre at shoulder, before the little guard-house. The troopers stood in groups along the street, smoking and talking. The smoke of their pungent cigarettes drifted on the air, and the murmur of their voices rang with a low note of menace. Unmolested, Cuddlehead reached the long white building where the officers of this inconsiderable army lodged and messed. Through the open windows glowed a subdued light from the shaded lamps above the table. The compassing verandas were but partially illuminated by the glow from within, and silent men stood here and there in the shadows, motionless and expectant. At Cuddlehead's approach, the nearer ones hesitated for a moment, and then drew away.

"There is something rotten," quoted Cuddlehead, under his breath, and looked cautiously in. For a moment the array of faultless, gaudy mess-jackets startled him. In the sight of an apparently civilized military mess there was, to him, a suggestion of danger. Recovering his composure, he looked again. The faces up and down the table were dark, and, for the most part, sullen. At the head of the board, with his face toward the onlooker's place of vantage, sat Hemming. His shoulders were squared. His eye-glass gleamed in the lamplight. Cuddlehead stared at the commander-in-chief with a fearful, spellbound gaze. His hands clutched at the low window-sill. His breath seemed to hang in his windpipe. At last he straightened himself, moistened his craven lips with his tongue, and went stealthily away. Safe in his own room in the quiet inn, he took a shrewd nip of raw brandy.

"What the devil," he asked himself, "brought that righteous, immaculate fool to this God-forsaken place?"

Two things were uppermost in his memory—a caning once given to a cad, and a shilling once tossed to a beggar.

CHAPTER X.

THE FIRST SHOT

Mr. Cuddlehead did not go far afield during the day following his glimpse of the officers' dinner-table. Instead, he kept to his room until evening, or at most took a furtive turn or two on the cobbles before the inn door. After his lonely and not very palatable dinner was over, he set out cautiously for the President's villa. He wanted to have a talk with Miss Tetson alone. She, no doubt, could explain matters to him, so that he might be able to decide on a course of action. He walked slowly, keeping always a vigilant look-out for the trim, dauntless figure of Herbert Hemming. At the great gateway the brown boy on sentry-go saluted, and let him pass without question. In return he treated the fellow to his blandest smile and a milreis note. He did not keep long to the drive, but turned off into a narrow path as soon as he felt that the soldier had ceased watching him. He took his time, traversing winding paths between low tropical shrubs and yellow-stemmed bamboo, but always drawing nearer to the quiet mansion. Presently his ear caught a welcome sound,—the soft, frivolous strumming of a banjo. He was aware that Hemming was not musical; in fact, he remembered that his rendering of "Father O'Flynn" had once been mistaken for the national anthem.

Cuddlehead found Miss Tetson on a stone seat, near her favourite fountain. At sight of him, she stopped her idle playing, and answered his salutation with the coldest of bows. Her lover's kisses still burned on her lips, and words of his impulsive wooing still rang sweetly in her ears. Even the little brown crane, that stood there watching the sparkling water with eyes like yellow jewels, reminded her of a certain evening when she had been unkind to Valentine Hicks. The hour was not for Cuddlehead.

Undisturbed by the coolness of his reception, Mr. Cuddlehead seated himself at the far end of the bench, and began to talk. He described his journey from Pernambuco to Pernamba, and with so fine a wit that Marion smiled. He told little anecdotes of his past, very clever, and very vague as to dates and scenes. The girl almost forgot the sinister aspect of his face in the charm of his conversation, and when he mentioned Hemming, in terms of warmest respect, she confided to him something of his trouble with the army.

"Perhaps I can be of some use; one Englishman should be good for ten of those niggers," he said. He lifted the banjo from the seat, and made it dance and sing through the newest Southern melody. His touch was both dainty and brilliant. He replaced the instrument on the seat between them. He saw that the girl was more favourably impressed with him than she had been. For a little while they kept silence, and her thoughts returned to Valentine Hicks. Suddenly they heard Hemming's voice, pitched low and sharp, in anger. He was hidden from them by shrubs of tangled growth.

"I have given my orders," he said. "Do you understand?"

The thick voice of the colonel made reply in spluttering oaths.

"No more of that," said Hemming, fiercely.

Marion heard the crunch of his heels on the path as he wheeled. Cuddlehead held his breath, the better to hear, and a quotation about a house divided against itself came imperfectly to his mind.

The heavy footsteps of the native officer were heard retreating. Presently Hemming rounded the hedge of roses, and stood by the fountain. By the faint starlight the watchers saw that he was smiling. He lit a cigarette with deliberate care, and dropped the match into the shallow basin of the fountain. He lit another match and looked at his watch. He had the air of one keeping a tryst. Santosa came out of the shadows beyond, booted and spurred. The two men shook hands, and whispered together. Their backs were turned square upon the occupants of the bench. Then Hemming produced a long packet of papers and gave them to Santosa.

"Mr. Tetson has signed them all," he said, "and the major will see to the business part of it. Impress the importance of the matter upon him, and then hurry back, for I'm afraid these idiots intend making this unpleasant for us. And now, old man, good luck and God bless you. It is a fine night for a ride."

"A beautiful night," replied Santosa, "and on such a night I must either make love to my friends or trouble for my enemies."

He turned on his heel and clanked away.

All this time Marion had sat as one spellbound. Now she looked toward the other end of the stone seat. Cuddlehead had gone. She called to Hemming. He started at the sound of her voice. "You here?" he said.

"Yes, and so was Mr. Cuddlehead a moment ago. But he sneaked off, the little cad."

"Did he see the papers?" he asked.

"Yes, I'm sure he did," she replied.

"You had better run into the house," he said. "I'll look for the spy."

Marion hastened indoors, and told Hicks all she knew about the trouble. The young man looked deeply concerned.

"I wish Hemming had come to us a year ago," he exclaimed.

"Could he have helped it?" she asked.

"I believe he would have opened our eyes, dear, before things got into such an awful mess," replied her lover.

"But surely we are not in any danger," she urged. "Surely Mr. Hemming and father can quiet them."

"Our lives are safe enough, but the little fools may break some windows. You see, dear, the President and I have not watched them as we should. We have let them rob us right and left, and now, when Hemming tries to spoil their game, and force them to divvy up, they evidently want to bully us. It's in their blood, you know,—this revolution business." Having thus unbosomed himself, Hicks leaned weakly back in his chair.

"Dearest," he said, presently, "will you bring me my Winchester—it's in the boot closet—and that bag of cartridges on my writing-table."

The girl brought them, and Hicks oiled the breech of the rifle.

A few minutes later the President and Mrs. Tetson entered the secretary's sitting-room. They found that gentleman sorting out heaps of cartridges, while their daughter sat near him busily scrubbing sections of a Colt's revolver with a toothbrush. The President's face displayed shame and consternation.

"God help us! we are ruined," he said, looking from one to another with bloodshot eyes.

He produced a yellow cigar from a shabby case, and seated himself close to the window. Suddenly he stood up and looked out.

"Who's that?" he asked.

"Hemming," came the faint reply.

A rifle cracked, and the bullet splintered the slats of the shutter. The President retired into the room and turned off the lights.

"Hemming was right. They mean to force me," he exclaimed.

Hicks tottered to the window, rifle in hand. The sounds of a violent scuffle arose from the flowerbeds. Hicks could just make out a rolling, twisting mass below.

"Hold your fire," gasped a voice which he recognized as Hemming's. Presently the mass ceased its uneasy movements, and divided itself into two equal parts, one of which continued to lie among the crushed flowers, while the other staggered along the wall of the house and entered the dining-room by a window. The President, carrying a revolver awkwardly, hurried down-stairs. Presently he returned, he and Smith leading Hemming between them. Hemming was limp, and his pale face was streaked with dust and sweat. Blood dripped from his left sleeve. His monocle was gone.

"Mrs. Tetson, if you'll tie up my arm,—I'll show you how,—I'll be fit as a fiddle," he said, and sank into a chair.

"Gun?" queried Hicks, who knelt by the window, with his rifle on the sill.

"Knife," replied Hemming.

Marion cut away the sleeve of his jacket. "Surely Mr. Cuddlehead did not carry a knife," she said.

"I don't think so; I jumped on the wrong man. Heard some one crawling through the bushes, and thought I had him. One of my own troopers—he stuck me in the muscles,—bleeds a bit, that's all," he replied.

"There's not a sound in the garden now," said Hicks.

"Who fired the shot?" asked Tetson.

"A corporal," said Hemming. "He was behind me when you spoke. I didn't know—any one—was near. He'll never—fire another—shot." Then the commander-in-chief fainted on Valentine's bed, and Smith brought him around with cold water and brandy. Then Smith stole away from the villa toward the barracks. It was close upon dawn when he returned.

"They think they'll kidnap the President and the ladies, and take them away up-country and hold them for a ransom; it is the stranger's idea," he informed them.

The President turned a shade paler, and glanced apprehensively at his wife and daughter. Hicks swore. Hemming sat up and slid his feet to the floor.

"They are fools,—and Cuddlehead must be mad," he exclaimed. Tetson went over to his wife.

"Can you forgive me, dear?" he asked, huskily. For answer she kissed him.

The villa was left undisturbed all the following day. Again darkness came. The gardens were deserted. Smith had crawled around the house four times without hearing a sound or attracting a shot. The troopers were crowded together on and about the verandas of the officers' quarters, listening to the heated discussions of their superiors, Cuddlehead was with the officers, he and the colonel pouring their whiskey from the same decanter. A dark and silent procession moved from the President's villa down to the river, where the little steamer lay with her boilers hot. Mr. Tetson carried a small bag filled with sovereigns and a basket of food. Marion and Mrs. Tetson and two maids followed with wraps, baskets, and firearms. Smith scouted ahead. Hemming and Hicks walked feebly behind, armed and alert. The things were passed smartly aboard. The mooring-line was cleared. Hicks steadied himself by Marion's arm.

"We will soon follow you," he said. "Then you will think better of me than if I went now."

They were very close together, and the others were all busy crawling under the dirty awnings, or saying good-bye.

"I am poor as Job's turkey," he said.

"And my father is ruined," she replied.

"When will you marry me?" he asked.

"As soon as you come for me,—in Pernambuco, or New York, or—anywhere," she answered. Then she kissed him, and at the touch of her tear-wet face his heart leaped as if it would leave its place in his side to follow her.

The little steamer swung into the current, and drifted awhile without sound. Presently a red crown of sparks sprang from the stack, and like a thing alive it darted away down the sullen stream. Hemming, Hicks, and Smith turned silently and stole back to the deserted house. During their short absence, all the native servants had run away.

Smith, who seemed devoid of fear, buried the dead trooper in the flower-bed upon which he had fallen. Doctor Scott joined the garrison toward morning, and was both relieved and surprised to find that the Tetsons had decamped safely.

"They are not dangerous now, except to property," he said. "They may do a little accidental shooting, of course, for the colonel is very drunk, and down on you, Hemming, for spoiling his profitable game. That new chap seems to be quite off his head. Never heard such fool talk in all my life as he is spouting."

"Did Santosa get away?" asked Hemming.

"Two men went after him, and only one came back, and he is in the hospital," replied the doctor.

"Who looked after him?" inquired Hemming.

"I stitched him up before I came away," replied Scott, casually.

CHAPTER XI.

THE COLONEL'S ULTIMATUM

The little garrison breakfasted before sunrise. They had been busily occupied all night, securing doors and windows against any sudden attack. Smith made the secretary a huge bowl of beef tea, much to that warlike invalid's disgust.

"See here, Smith," he said, "if I can fight, I can eat."

"Miss Tetson's orders, sir," replied the man, gravely.

The doctor laughed boisterously, and Hicks blushed. While Hemming and Scott devoured boiled eggs, muffins; and coffee, with Smith waiting on them with a revolver in his pocket, Hicks retired to another room, out of sight of temptation. The poor fellow felt that seven eggs and a plate of muffins would be as nothing in his huge emptiness. He opened one of the upper front windows, and knelt by the sill, rifle in hand. His thoughts were gloomy. The beef tea had only sharpened his appetite and dampened his spirits. Outside, the dawn was quickly strengthening, filling the beautiful gardens with magic, inviting light. He thought of the little fountain in front of the bench, and of the lonely crane. Suddenly he heard the brisk padding of hoofs on the drive, and the colonel, followed by a trooper, rode up to the great steps.

With pardonable caution, Hicks protruded his head from the window, and addressed the Brazilian politely.

The stout horseman saluted, and spoke thus, in what he fondly considered to be English: "Señor, a good morning to you, my friend. I here have a letter, humbly which I wish a delivery in the hands of General Hemming."

He smiled up at the man in the window, evidently vastly pleased with his speech. It was not often that he attempted the language of these aliens.

"If you will kindly request the gentleman with you to poke the letter under the door, I shall be delighted to deliver it to the general," replied Hicks, with a wan grin.

The colonel blinked sleepily, for he had been up late, assisting at the writing of the letter, and emptying bottles. "Have no tremble, señor," he said, "for see,—I am as a sheep, mild."

"I know nothing of sheep, colonel," replied Hicks, "and all is not wool that looks greasy." The soldiers below looked puzzled, and Hicks felt sorry that they were his only audience. Presently the colonel spoke to his man in Portuguese, and passed him a long, white envelope. The little trooper advanced upon the doorway.

"Thank you, sir," cried Hicks, and bowed, as he turned from the window. But the colonel called him back.

"A moment, señor," he said; "I will inquire of the conditions of the ladies, with most respectable regards."

"Thank you, they are very well," said Hicks, and hurried away.

When Hicks gave the letter to Hemming, that self-possessed gentleman and the doctor were smoking, with their chairs pushed back, and Smith was eating muffins with surprising rapidity.

"A letter to you?" queried Scott. "Then they must know of Tetson's escape."

"Possibly," said Hemming, and opened the paper. At first he smiled, as he read. Then, of a sudden, he wrinkled his brows, stared, and looked up.

"What is that stranger's name?" he asked, sharply.

"Cuddlehead, sir," replied Smith, promptly.

"I doubt it," retorted the other, "for I have reason enough to remember this handwriting."

To explain the remark, he opened the sheet on the table, and pointed to where a line had been crossed through and rewritten in a chirography very different to that of the body of the manuscript.

"He seemed harmless enough, whoever he is, from what I heard of him," remarked Hicks.

"He's a sneaking cad," said Hemming, hotly, "and has more devil in him than you could find in the whole of that rotten battalion put together. His real name is Penthouse,—and, by gad, no wonder he kept out of my sight!"

"May we read the letter?" asked the doctor, calmly.

"Read away," said the commander-in-chief, and got out of his chair to pace the room.

The style of the document disclosed its mongrel extraction. It ran as follows:

"TO THE DISTINGUISHED SEÑOR HERBERT HEMMING, LATE COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF OF THE ARMY OF PERNAMBA.

"DEAR SIR:—We, the undersigned officers of the Army of Pernamba (seeing in you the real head of the presidential household), do hereby request you to consider the following petitions. First—We desire the sum of ten thousand dollars, due us and our men, in back pay, as per signed agreement with Mr. Tetson. Second—We desire an apology from your distinguished and august self, due us for insulting words spoken to every officer and man of this army. Should the above petitions not be granted within twenty-four hours, we shall proceed, without further parley, to force the money from Mr. Tetson and the apology from you."

At the foot of this ridiculous but disconcerting epistle, stood the names of all the native officers, except, of course, Captain Santosa.

The morning passed without disturbance. The brown soldiers moved about the fast-shut house, smoking endlessly, and talking to one another. The afternoon proved as unexciting as the morning, and Smith began to long for a fight. But Hemming would not let him even take pot-shots at the men in the grounds. By the doctor's orders, the secretary's diet was advanced to soft-boiled eggs. By good luck a store of these were in the house, all more or less fresh.

The colonel took up his position before the villa bright and early on the morning of the 20th of May. It was quite evident to Hemming, who watched him from an upper window, that he had been drinking heavily. Hemming was the first to speak.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"I am sure you know what I want, señor," he replied, in his own language.

"Mr. Tetson and I have decided not to consider your so-called petitions," said Hemming, quietly. "We would prove ourselves cowards should we do so. Mr. Tetson owes you nothing,—in fact, the debt is very much the other way; and I shall never ask your pardon for having spoken the truth."

The colonel was furious.

"Consider the safety of the ladies," he shouted.

Scott, who stood behind Hemming, chuckled at that. "What wily, open-eyed chaps they are," he said. "I wonder if they have missed the steamer yet?"

Hemming leaned from the window. "We can look after the ladies, thank you," he sneered, "and, by the way, tell your precious English friend, who helped you write that charming letter, that if I get my hands on him, he'll suffer more than he did the other time. Hurry along now."

Hemming had recovered his monocle, and before its baleful glare the colonel was silent and confused. Just then Cuddlehead thumped into view, clinging to the neck of Hemming's own white stallion. He was in a far worse state than the colonel even, and swayed in the saddle.

"Good morning, Captain Hemming," he cried, and waved his hand.

The men in the room were startled by the expression that crossed their friend's face. The mouth hardened. The eyes narrowed. A deep flush burned in his thin cheeks. He paid no heed to the stranger's salutation.

"Pepper," he said, softly.

The stallion looked up.

"What is that pitiful object on your neck? That nasty cad?"

Pepper hung his clever little head.

His master leaned far out of the window, and his eyes met those of the little stallion.

"Pepper," he said, "jump."

Pepper jumped. Cuddlehead slid over his tail, and for a full minute remained seated in the dust. The Brazilian colonel reeled in his saddle with choking laughter.

"Good old horse, good Pepper," called Hemming, gently.

The stallion cantered away, riderless.

The object of the colonel's uncomfortable mirth got painfully to his feet. His face was purple with the fury that raged within him. He cast discretion to the winds, and, drawing a revolver, emptied it at the smoking-room window. He looked under the cloud of dirty smoke, and saw Hemming's face bent toward him, set and horrible.

"Go away," said a voice that rang like metal, "or I will kill you where you stand. You have crossed my trail once too often, Penthouse, and, by God! this will be the last time. But now you may go away, you poor fool."

Scott twitched once or twice, where he lay on the smoking-room floor, with his head on Smith's knee.

But he was dead, sure enough, with a hole in his neck and another in his heart.

News of the doctor's death soon reached the army, and the colonel's eyes were partially opened to his foolishness. He returned to his quarters, and tried to drown his misgivings in drink. Soon he was as reckless and crazy as ever. It was not a game for a sober man to play with any chance of success. Penthouse, for it was really he, cursed his luck when he heard of his deed, but not so much in disgust at having killed a harmless stranger as in having missed Hemming. Then he steadied his nerves with a glass of brandy, and encouraged the army to fresh efforts.

In the afternoon, Hemming opened the front door, and stared at the men on the veranda. His left arm was in a sling. The troopers straightened up at sight of him, and one even went so far as to toss away his cigarette. The slim lieutenant, with the weakness for golf, bowed low.

"While you are waiting for that money," said Hemming, "will you be kind enough to ask some of your men to dig a grave over there?" He pointed with his hand. The lieutenant gave the order. Then he turned to Hemming.

"We regret the doctor's death," he said, "but,—ah—well—the fortunes of war."

"You give this lawlessness rather a dignified name," replied the Englishman.

A blush was all the Brazilian's answer.

"Do you want to kill us all, or is it only the money you are after?" asked Hemming.

The lieutenant looked both ashamed and sulky. He was handsome in a weak sort of way, with a baby face and a thread of black moustache. "We want not to kill," he began, in stilted English, then in his own tongue he continued, "We swore long ago to stick together and hold to our plans,—all except Captain Santosa. We are poor, and one way of making money seemed as good as another. We have our pride and our honour,—we officers. You insulted our colonel. You have called us robbers. Now we will humble your arrogance,—and get our pay."

Hemming translated slowly, often having to hark back to a word and feel around for its meaning. The troopers, who had caught something of the conversation, awaited the commander-in-chief's reply in expectant attitudes.

"You have your pride," he said at last; "then, for God's sake, take it away! It reminds me of a cur with a rotten bone. And that murderer you have with you, surely you are proud of him. Humble my arrogance if you can. It will stand a lot of that sort of thing."

He looked out to where three men were breaking the sod for Scott's grave.

"How many of you has Doctor Scott nursed back to worthless lives?" he asked. The men turned their faces toward the gravediggers.

CHAPTER XII.

O'ROURKE TO THE RESCUE

Penthouse (still known to the army as Señor Cuddlehead) sat in the colonel's bedroom in an unenviable frame of mind. He had been a fool to show himself to Hemming. He had been a fool to put any faith in these niggers. Why, the little cowards were afraid to break into the house,—afraid to face five white men and a couple of women. And now that Hemming had seen him again, and again in a decidedly unfavourable light, what mercy could he expect if Hemming ever got out of the President's villa? Whatever he could do must be done quickly. He looked at the colonel, who lay in drunken half-slumber on the bed.

"You don't seem to be carrying out our plans," he said.

The Brazilian groaned, and muttered something in his own tongue, which, fortunately, the other could not translate. "We must carry off the women to-night. Our chances of getting what we want lessen every hour. If help comes from the coast, then what will happen? Half a dozen men could run your dirty army out of the country." With every unheeded word, Penthouse's anger grew. The colonel sprawled there, murmuring that he felt very ill. Penthouse jumped up and shook him violently.

"Wake up, you drunken hog!" he shouted; "wake up, and get to work."

The colonel opened his eyes.

"The ladies—they are gone. They went—long ago."

He closed his eyes again.

"You fool!" cried Penthouse, trembling with rage and disappointment, "you fool, didn't I tell you to put a guard on the boat, and to surround the house?"

"The guard went—to Pedro's—to buy wine. I did not hear till to-day. I was angry," replied the Brazilian, in a faint and broken voice.

"To buy wine," echoed the white man, in a tragic cry. Failure grinned at him again. Even in battle and murder he could not succeed. He almost found it in him to regret the vagrant, hungry days on the London streets, when he went up and down among familiar faces, tattered and disguised. He was at home there, at least, and knew the tricks of the place. But here, hunted by Hemming for a murderer, penniless, and among strangers,—Lord, one would be better dead.

"Hemming must never get away from that house," he whispered to himself.

The colonel snorted and choked in his heavy sleep. For a few minutes the broken Englishman looked at him intently. Then he walked over to a small table by the window. "There is still liquor that I don't have to pay for," he said, and lifted the bottle.

Through the President's gardens and the streets of the little town, the troopers sauntered and smoked, awaiting further orders from their colonel for the undoing of the passive enemy.

"The colonel and Señor Cuddlehead are closeted together," said a subaltern to a sergeant, "so before dark we shall have our money."

"But the ladies have gone," replied the sergeant. "They went away in the President's steamer while the guard was shaking dice at Pedro's."

"How do you know that?" argued the officer. "No one saw them go. Of course they keep away from the windows."

"The General Hemming would see that we got our money, if the ladies were in any danger," said the other, conclusively. But the subaltern shook his head.

"You don't know these fools of Englishmen as well as I do," he said. "They would rather have their own grandmothers shot than pay out any money."

"But," retorted the sergeant, with a knowing look, "it is not the general's money we want, but the President's. He would force the old man to pay, if the ladies were in peril. No, the women have gone with the steamer, I am sure."

"Englishmen are stubborn brutes," replied the officer, unconvinced, "and besides, my friend, this Hemming believes that with his own right arm he is able to defend the house against us. Also, my friend, why should he give us Tetson's money until we force him to? It may all be his some day."

The besieged wondered why more shooting was not done. What fun could the little men find in a smokeless revolution? Did they still cling to the hope of receiving back pay? Did they still believe the family to be in the villa? Hemming, seated by the window, with his rifle across his knees, wondered when they would begin to humble his arrogance. Valentine Hicks, eating quinine and prowling from room to room, and window to window, with his Winchester under his arm, lived over and over again his parting with Marion. Smith, armed like a pirate, and itching for a fight, was happier than he had ever been. He had a heavy strain of the bulldog in him, had this valet named Smith, also a fine respect for gentlemen, and a love of their companionship.

It was dark in the gardens. Smith was downstairs in the billiard-room, motionless and wide awake. Hemming and Hicks were smoking, one on each side of the upper hall window, which overlooked the front steps, the driveway, and the great gates.

"The poor fellows will be sadly disappointed when they get in and find the Tetsons and the money gone," remarked Hemming, calmly, "though their stupidity in thinking them still here beats me."

"There are some things of value in the house," replied Hicks.

"Oh, yes; they might melt the silver," suggested Hemming, "but the furniture would bother them. Of course they will tear up the place, and pot us, and try to get revenge that way."

"Yes," replied Hicks, "but I have a little stone about me." He opened his linen tunic, and unfastened a narrow cartridge-belt. "I wear it next my skin," he said, "and it galls me a bit sometimes." He drew a brass shell from one of the loops and with his penknife extracted a cork and a wad of cotton wool. Then he shook something white and rough, but glowing dimly, into the palm of Hemming's hand. He laughed softly.

"The bridegroom's gift to the bride," he said,—"if the bridegroom gets to the church."

Hemming gazed at it in silence.

"Cut and polished, what would it be worth?" asked its owner. His voice was low and eager. He placed a trembling hand on his friend's knee.

"I have seen diamonds in the rough before," replied Hemming, "but never one as large as this. Brazilian stones vary a good deal in quality. It may stand for a fortune, or perhaps for nothing more than a respectable cottage, with stables, a paddock, and an orchard, and maybe a shooting in Scotland."

"That would do for us," said Hicks, grinning like a schoolboy. "Old Tetson could manage the orchard, and Mrs. Tetson could see that he didn't get his feet wet." For a few moments he seemed to be following this dream of bucolic bliss.

Then he continued: "I bought it in Pernambuco last December from a drunken sailor, a cook or something like that, who had run away from a wind-jammer. He didn't think much of it. It had been given him by an old woman,—at least, so he said, but more likely he stole it. I paid fifteen milreis for it,—fifteen milreis, with the exchange at ninepence."

"Put it away," said Hemming, "and keep that belt next your hide, no matter how much it galls."

Hicks replaced the stone in the empty shell, and the shell in his belt.

"And she thinks I haven't a cent," he whispered. "Isn't she a brick?"

The Englishman leaned back, out of range of the open window, and relit his cigar. Suddenly Hicks bent forward, listening.

"Did you hear that?" he said.

But Hemming had heard no unusual sound, only the footsteps of their guards, and the noise of men singing at the barracks.

"It's the first time I have heard an old 'Sam Peabody' in Brazil," said the American.

"Who?" said Hemming, wondering if his friend's temperature had gone up again.

"It's a bird, some sort of sparrow we have in the North," replied Hicks. He left the hall quietly, and hung out of a window in his own room. Presently, from the shrubbery below him, came the familiar notes again. He wet his lips with his tongue, and whistled the clear call himself. He was answered immediately. He peered down into the dim garden. The only light was that of the stars. He could see nothing. No leaf stirred in the shrubbery, and there was neither sight nor sound of the enemy on that side of the house.

"If you don't intend to let us in," said a quiet voice, "you might pass out a couple of drinks."

"Whiskey and soda for me," said the voice of Captain Santosa.

Hicks ran down-stairs, and Hemming followed him. They unbarred a window, and Smith stood ready with his rifle at port. In crawled O'Rourke and Santosa, very wet as to clothing, but very dry inside.

"The Campbells have arrived," said O'Rourke, brushing mud from his leggings. Hemming, for a moment, was dumbfounded at this unexpected appearance.

"God bless you, Bertram," he said at last, and they shook hands warmly.

"I thought, a few days ago, that it was chance that brought me to Brazil," said O'Rourke, "but really, little fellow, it must have been your guardian angel. What a chap you are for getting into silly messes. There seems to be a row whenever you arrive."

"This row is not Hemming's fault," protested Hicks. O'Rourke and Hemming laughed happily, for both felt that, together, they could pull out of the worst scrape ever invented.

"This gentleman would come," said Santosa, "and at a pace that nearly wore me to the bone."

Just then Smith held a tray toward the late arrivals.

"We left McPhey organizing a relief expedition to come by land," O'Rourke informed them, after quenching his thirst, "and the major, after doing his business, will bring a party up by boat,—a company or two of government troops."

"Where did you leave the horses?" asked Hemming.

"Up the trail a little way, with a dusky admirer of yours," replied O'Rourke.

The besieged returned to the upper hall. Hicks gave a clear though somewhat lengthy account of the rebellion. Santosa told them of his ride to Pernambuco and O'Rourke gave such news as he could of the outside world. Hemming, with his eyes on the dark blue square of the window, tried to formulate a plan by which five men might protect themselves and the property against five hundred a day or two longer. He knew that, if the colonel really intended violence, the crisis must soon come.

Santosa kicked off his boots, and went to sleep on the floor. Hicks, seated with his rifle across his knees, also slipped away to the land of Nod.

"If you have no objections," remarked O'Rourke, "I will take a bath. Hope the enemy won't make any hostile move while I'm splashing."

Hemming lit another cigar, and continued his watch by the open window. His arm pained him a good deal, so it was not hard to keep awake. He heard the guards tramping about, and now and then a few words of conversation, or a snatch of laughter. He heard music and shouting in the distance, and sometimes the faint and hurried clatter of hoofs. All the windows in the town seemed alight. A cool wind stole across the palms. His thoughts left the foolish, drunken men without, and the adventurers within, and journeyed, with the wind, far beyond the black palms and the little city. The report of a rifle brought him to his feet with a jump. Hicks also was out of his chair. Santosa was pulling on his boots. They hurried down-stairs followed by O'Rourke in a bath-towel.

"If it's a fight," said O'Rourke, "I'll dry myself and join you. If it's just skirmishing, I'll go back to my tub."

They found Smith at his post in the billiard-room.

"What is the trouble?" asked Hemming.

"Family quarrel, I believe, sir," replied the valet. "Two people have been talking English for quite awhile, just a little way off that window. Then some one fired a shot, and they dusted. Think it was one of the guards, sir, who fired. Drunk, I suppose."

"What were they talking about?" asked Hemming.

"Well, sir, I couldn't catch much of it," replied Smith, "but there was something said about Mr. Tetson's steamer, the Alligator, and about the firemen and engineers being prisoners. From what I could gather, she was captured about half a mile down-stream to-night on her way up. One of the men said that he had got a job on her, because he had some important business to attend to up here."

"The devil!" exclaimed Hicks. "I bet they had a letter for me."

CHAPTER XIII.

THE UNEXPECTED SAILOR

Morning came, and with it the colonel, on Hemming's white stallion.

"I see," said he, in Portuguese, "that Captain Santosa has returned."

Hemming nodded. The colonel pressed a tremulous hand to a flushed forehead.

"Damn it," he cried, "I would not have done so. This place is the devil. The ice factory has shut down, and my drink has been warm for two days."

"Very interesting," replied the Englishman, "but if you have nothing more important to tell me, you will excuse me if I return to my bed."

The colonel raised his hand.

"One moment," said he.

Then he ordered his men out of ear-shot. He rolled a cigarette, and lit it with unseemly deliberation.

"I have been remarkably polite and friendly," he said, "but now I have your steamer, and the crew in prison, and unless, my dear fellow, we can agree—" He stopped, and removed his hat, the better to rub his brow. Hemming yawned.

"The army," continued the Brazilian, "is in a dangerous mood. Unless you give me five thousand milreis to-night,—only five thousand milreis,—I fear that I can restrain my brave soldiers no longer. But say nothing of it to Señor Cuddlehead."

"Give me time to shave," said Hemming, "and then—"

"And then?" asked the colonel.

"Why, and then," repeated Hemming, "tell the little beasts not to be restrained any longer. As for the money—you may go to the devil for that."

The colonel sighed, and mopped his neck with his wilted handkerchief.

"It is too warm to fight," he said.

"You will find it so," retorted the Englishman.

The colonel looked up helplessly.

"My army," he sighed, "how can I restrain it? I hate to fight, and my head aches. But my army must have some money."

"I don't see my way to help you," said Hemming.

"The revolution is a failure unless you surrender and pay," cried the colonel. "Don't you understand, my dear Hemming? I do not like bloodshed, but—well, you have ruined our gentler plan."

"You might carry away the table silver," replied Hemming, "but there is no money. That has all gone to the coast. No doubt the house and furniture, and even the forks and spoons, belong by now to the Brazilian government. It would be foolish of you to damage government property for the sake of a few pounds. It would mean trouble, my friend."

The colonel sagged in his saddle like a bag of meal.

"I cannot argue," he said, listlessly. "It is too hot to talk. My head aches—the devil take it. You should not have sent the money."

"A touch of sun," suggested Hemming.

The fat Brazilian looked at the blue sky through bloodshot, half-closed eyes.

"The sun," he said, "why, yes, the sun. Damn the sun."

He swayed for a moment, and then slid in a heap to the ground. His men had been watching him, and now two of them ran forward and carried the yielding, flabby body to the nearest fountain.

"Sun and whiskey," commented Hemming. Then he returned to his bedroom and commenced to shave.

By this time the little garrison was astir. Hicks, with a sandwich in one hand and his rifle in the other, opened the shutters of one of the lower windows and looked out. Not ten feet away stood a man in a blue cotton shirt, and dirty canvas trousers. The blotchy, grinning face and bowed legs struck him with an unpleasant sense of familiarity.

"Hello, mister," said the stranger. "I'd like to 'ave a word wid one of you gents."

"Which one?" asked Hicks.

"There you 'ave me," replied the man. "Ye see, I was drunk an' it were a dark night. Don't know as I'd know 'im widout puttin' a few questions." He took a couple of steps toward the open window. Hicks put the remaining portion of the sandwich into his mouth, and shifted the rifle.

"Ease off that thar gun a p'int or two," cried the sailor.

Hicks had been taught, while young, not to talk with his mouth full. So he made no answer.

"I ain't looking fer no trouble," said the seaman. "All I want is ter come aboard an' 'ave a quiet jaw wid you and yer mates, afore this blasted old craft 'awls down 'er colours."

"What about?" asked Hicks.

"That thar dimund, skipper," replied the man, with an evil grin.

Hicks changed colour. O'Rourke stuck his head out of the window. He glared at the man in the blue shirt for several seconds.

"Belay that talk," he said, "and stop up the slack of it neat and shipshape."

The man of the sea rolled his eyes in pained astonishment.

"So it was you, Mr. O'Rourke," he sneered. "Now that's a gentleman's trick for you."

"Yes, it was I kicked you down the hatch, if that is what you are mentioning," replied O'Rourke, "and I think you know enough of me to obey my orders on the jump. I've eaten enough of your slush-fried grub to kill a whole ship's crew, you thieving sea-cook. I know you for too big a coward to step out on to the foot-rope, but brave enough to jab a marlinspike between a mate's ribs. So clear out of this."

The seaman shuffled his feet and grinned.

"Not so quick," he retorted; "'and over that dimund an' I'll go, Mister O'Rourke."

"Diamond, you longshore gallows-bird, I don't know what you are talking about, but I'll hand over something that'll make you hop, in a minute," cried O'Rourke, in a fury.

Hicks threw his Winchester to his shoulder. "Come right in," he said, "or I'll blow the third button of your dirty shirt, counting from the top, right through your chest."

The seaman pulled a hideous face, and spat into the dust.

"Guess I'll accept your kind invite," he said. "It's real civil of gents like you to treat a poor sailorman like this." But he did not move.

O'Rourke eyed him with a new interest, and Hicks squinted along the black barrel.

"Don't trouble about that knife. We will lend you one if we keep you to lunch," said O'Rourke.

The fellow's face widened in a sickly smile as he entered the billiard-room by way of the open window. After relieving him of an amazingly sharp sheath-knife, they tied his hands and feet and locked him safe in an empty room.

"You see, O'Rourke, I am the man he is after; I have the diamond he talks about," explained Hicks.

O'Rourke whistled softly, and smiled inquiringly at the big fever-thinned secretary.

"Take it from him?" he queried.

"I bought it from him," replied Hicks, "and it's on me now."

"Hold on to it, then, old chap," said O'Rourke, "and don't gab. He hates me, anyway, so he may just as well keep on thinking I have the stone. He was cook aboard a barquentine in which I made a voyage last year. I was a passenger,—the skipper's friend,—and when the skipper was sick I had to interview the cook once or twice."

The colonel died that evening, at a quarter past six, of too much rum and whiskey and not enough medical treatment. His soldiers had done their best to save his life. Three of them, with the best intentions, held him upside down in a fountain for a good fifteen minutes, at the very beginning of his illness. Then they had carried him to his own quarters, and watched him expire.

The Señor Cuddlehead now took command, for the officers were in a funk. Through an interpreter he lectured and encouraged the men. He assured them that, should Hemming escape from the house alive, they would all swing for it, sooner or later; and that should they capture and bear away the other inmates, every man would find himself rich. What matter if the ladies had escaped, he said—surely the friends of Mr. Hicks would gladly pay a great ransom, should they succeed in carrying him away to the hills.

CHAPTER XIV.

THE ATTACK

When news of the colonel's death reached Hemming, he sighed with relief.

"That ends it," he said. "The old man was a fool, but he held them together."

"What about that Penthouse-Cuddlehead chap? He seems to be taking an interest in it," said Hicks.

"He is sneak enough for anything, but he is also a coward," replied Hemming.

"This is a poor sort of revolution," said O'Rourke. "I have had more excitement waiting for my mail at the window of a country post-office. A Sunday-school treat beats it hands down. Davis could invent a better one in his sleep."

"Please don't talk like an ass, old chap," said Hemming. He found the revolution quite exciting enough.

"I shall go and look at my prisoner—he may be in a better humour than you," remarked O'Rourke, pensively.

Hicks followed him to the door of the locked room.

"These duffers don't want to fight. They never did, either. It was all a bluff of the colonel's," he said.

The other shook his head.

"Wait until we hear from Hemming's enemy. I think he'll take a turn before we get out of this," he replied. "He has played poor old Hemming some low tricks before now," he added, and gave Hicks a hint of the trouble in Hemming's past. Hicks passed on and descended to the billiard-room, and O'Rourke paused at the door. He turned the key and stepped into the room. He dodged before his eyes had warned him of danger. The huge fist landed on a point of his left shoulder, and sent him spinning across the room. He recovered himself in time to partially evade the seaman's bull-like rush. Staggered and hurt, he closed with his antagonist, wondering dully if the fellow had broken the cords, or had worked the knots loose. It did not occur to him to call for help. The door had closed behind him. The mariner's huge arms seemed to force his very heart out of its place. The bowed, sturdy legs wrenched at his knees. The hot, evil breath burned against his neck. For a moment the pain of it closed his eyes. He was bent nearly double, and pin-points of light flashed in his brain. Then he recovered his wits and his courage. He twisted himself so that his shoulder caught the sailor's chin. This gave him a chance to breathe, and eased the crushing weight upon his ribs. It was O'Rourke's belief that, in a rough and tumble fight, without knives, and muscles being equal, the gentleman has always the advantage of the plebeian. So once again he settled himself to prove it. But this time the plebeian was unusually desperate. He wanted a diamond, and he hated the man his hands were upon. All his superiors were detestable to his uncouth soul. He had feared O'Rourke before this. Now he felt no fear—only a mad desire to knock the breath out of that well-kept body, and mark with blood the hard-set, scornful face. Then for the coast again, with the stone of fabulous price. For a minute or two O'Rourke played a waiting game. Twice, by his quickness and length of leg, he avoided a bad throw. His back and neck had some close calls. After discovering that he was in better condition than his opponent, he began to force matters. Within ten minutes of his entrance, he knelt upon the sailor's bulky shoulders, and with colourless lips muttered strange oaths. Though his eyes were bright, he was not nice to look at.

The original savage glared exultingly from that white face. The sailor lay still, with blood from lips and nose staining the floor, a pitiful and ungainly figure.

Presently O'Rourke got to his feet and staggered from the room. Smith caught him just in time to help him to a chair. It had been a big effort for a warm day.

Hicks nursed the mariner back to his miserable existence. This required only a few minutes, for brandy had an almost magic effect upon this outcast of the sea. He emptied one decanter, and, seeing no chance of a second, made a dash for the open window, taking the sill in a flying jump. But the window was on the second floor. When Smith went out to look at the body there was no trace of it.

"I could have sworn," said Hicks, with a shudder, "that I heard his neck break, but maybe it was just the bushes giving way."

The night was bright with stars. The little garrison sat up and smoked by the open windows. On the lower floor, windows were shuttered and barred, and doors were locked. If this game of war were worth playing at all, it was worth playing well. Shortly before midnight some one staggered up to the front of the house, carrying a paper lantern at the end of a stick, and singing. The guards jeered him. It was the sea-cook, drunk and bedraggled. He stopped his song in the middle of a line, and waved his lantern toward the window above him.

"Come out," he bawled, "an' gimme that dimund. Gesh you thought I couldn't jump out er that windy, didn't yer? Gesh yer'll be jumpin' outa it yerself perty soon."

The lantern caught fire, and the gaudy paper globe went up in a little burst of flame. The man threw it from him, and lurched on to the veranda. A scattered volley broke, here and there, from the garden. A few bullets pinged into the woodwork of the windows. Shouts of laughter went up from the clusters of trees and shrubs. The sailor hammered the front door. The guards sneaked away into the friendly shadows.

"They are all drunk," said Hicks, "and they'll try to rush us, for sure."

"Then the colonel's death was not an unmixed blessing," remarked O'Rourke.

Hemming ordered Smith and Hicks to windows on the other side of the house.

"Shall we shoot over their heads, or may we pump it right into them?" asked Hicks.

"I leave it to your own discretion," replied Hemming.

Smith grinned. He promised himself an easy interpretation of the word.

Hemming took the window in the upper hall, overlooking the front steps and the driveway, himself.

There was not a figure in sight. But the glass of the window lay broken on the floor, and the diamond-hunter kept up his drunken disturbance on the veranda below. The firing out of the shadows continued, and drew nearer. Hemming extinguished his cigar and sat on the floor. He enjoyed quite a novel sensation when a bullet sang its way through the open window, like a great bee, and ripped into a shelf full of books half-way down the hall. He had never before been under fire behind a window. All about him he could hear the thumping of bullets against the tiles of the outer walls. Some one shouted in English, ordering the drunken sailor to come away from the house.

"Yer want my dimund, that's wot yer want," he shouted back, "but yer don't get so much ash a peep at it, see?"

Hemming heard and frowned, as he polished his eye-glass on his sleeve. Two shots sounded in quick succession from a room on the left of the hall. Hemming heard Santosa laugh, and O'Rourke congratulate him. The firing now seemed to centre mostly upon the front of the villa. Hemming, as yet, had not returned a shot. Suddenly the white man, moved by a drunken whim, left his hammering at the door, and pranced into the starlight. The shooting of his friends was everywhere. Elevation had little attention from them, and an unusually low ball found him out. He did not spring forward with uplifted hands; neither did he clutch at his breast and stagger onward. With an expression of pained astonishment on his face, and a heave of his fat shoulders, he sank to his hips, and then rolled over and lay still. To Hemming, it looked as if his fat legs had simply crumpled under him like paper.

A dozen men charged across the starlit driveway. Hemming dropped two of them. The others ran up the steps and across the veranda, and threw themselves against the door. But they were small men, and the door was a heavy one, and well bolted. Hemming left the window, and at the head of the stairs met O'Rourke.

"A brace and a half to me," said that gentleman, lightly.

The bitter smoke drifted from doorway to doorway through the dark. Hemming got his sword from his bedroom, and he and O'Rourke waited at the top of the stairs.

O'Rourke's heart was glad within him. Shoulder to shoulder with a man like Hemming, it would be a lovely fight. The door could not give in soon enough to suit him. He had ten shots in his revolvers. Then he could break a few heads with his clubbed rifle, surely, and, after that, when they had him down, he could kick for awhile. He did not think of his parents in the North, his friends, his half-written articles, nor his creditors. But he was sorry that Miss Hudson would never hear of his heroic finish.

"We have had some fun together, and I hope this will not be the last," said Hemming. They shook hands. Then the door came in with a rending, sidelong fall. A bunch of men sprang across it and made for the staircase, just discernible to them by the light from the doorway.

"Fire into the brown," said Hemming, quietly.

The four revolvers jumped and spit—once—twice—and the wounded slipped back against their comrades' legs. More men entered the hall below, and filed wildly into the darkness above and around. Then Hicks, Santosa, and Smith left their windows and pumped lead into the housebreakers. The noise was deafening. The air was unfit to breathe. O'Rourke wondered at something hot and wet against his leg. Hemming was angry because none would come within cutting distance. Smith felt very sick, but did not mention the fact. He knelt against the bannisters, and fumbled with the hammer of his revolver, and the blood from a great furrow in his neck ran down one of the polished rounds that supported the carved hand-rail. But it was dark, and he could not see it. But presently he dropped his revolver and felt the blood with his fingers, and wondered, in a dim way, who it was dared to make such a mess in Mr. Tetson's house.