Draw Swords! Part 47

"I wasn't thinking of the rain, but the lightning."

"What of that?"

"The powder-magazine."

"Humph! Ha! Yes; send us all flying if that blew up, d.i.c.k.

Unfortunate, too. No knowing how long the fresh lot will be coming. We shouldn't be of much use to the Rajah without our guns. But we mustn't meet troubles half-way; the storm isn't here yet."

"What are we going to do to-morrow?"

"Drill," said Wyatt shortly.

"We drilled yesterday and again to-day," said d.i.c.k wearily. "Oh, I say, how hot it is with that window shut!"

"Yes, dear boy, it is hot. I feel like a mouse in a baker's oven."

"No, you don't," said d.i.c.k impatiently. "You were never in a baker's oven, and you were never a mouse."

"No. More of the elephant about me," said Wyatt good-humouredly. "I'm getting too fat."

"Yes; we want some change," said d.i.c.k impatiently.

"You think so, do you?"

"Yes; it's so monotonous here. I'm getting horribly tired of it."

"Oh, that's what you mean--not about my being too heavy?"

"Absurd! No."

"Well, what shall we do?"

"I don't know. Couldn't we get up a tiger-hunt, or go fishing?"

"Um-mm-m, well, yes, we could. Tell you what, d.i.c.k, boy. Here's an idea, and it will be more exciting."

"Yes? What?" said d.i.c.k, sitting bolt upright.

"You write a letter to Rajah Singh, and tell him he's a chuckle-headed fool of a n.i.g.g.e.r, and that if he dares show himself anywhere near here you'll punch his head."

"Bah!"

"It'll make him come down in a huff, and then we can have some more fun."

d.i.c.k rose from his seat.

"What are you going to do? Write the letter at once?"

"Bah!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed d.i.c.k; "I'm going to bed."

"Best thing you can do, my little man. You're tired, and the dustman has been shaking his bag in your poor dear little eyes, as my old nurse used to say. Be off. You have been as disagreeable as you stand high for the last hour."

"Well, it's late, isn't it? You haven't been any too amiable," retorted d.i.c.k.

"No, dear boy, I haven't. Mine is a vile temper. I think it's because I never can have my own way. There, all right, old chap; I'll go too.

Turn out the lamp."

As d.i.c.k turned out the lamp the flickering lightning played through the window, showing Wyatt crossing to his chamber door, which he opened, turned, said "Good-night, old man," and closed after him.

d.i.c.k yawned heavily and went to the sitting-room door, which he threw open, disturbing his man, who, in company with Wyatt's servant, was asleep on the mat; and then, satisfied that the men were there, he closed the door again, went to that of his own room, and pa.s.sed through, leaving the door of communication open.

There was no light in the slightly-furnished bedchamber, and he felt that he did not need one, for it would only add to the heat of the place; so he partially undressed before going to the open window. This looked out on the shaded terrace, and he stood there gazing out at the darkness, which was cut every now and then by the flickering lightning, the latter being followed at intervals of several seconds by the muttering of the thunder far away in the mountains to the north.

"Phew! how hot it is!" muttered d.i.c.k. "Wish I was a fish."

All was wonderfully still in the courtyard below, and the darkness seemed mysterious and strange, till there was an impatient stamp from a horse's hoof, which sounded echoing and loud. Then the stillness and darkness grew oppressive as the heat, and a peculiar nervous sensation came over the lad as he thought of their loneliness away there among strangers, and what the consequences would be if the people rose against them at a time like that. How helpless they would be against the lithe, knife-armed enemy if they surprised them in such a darkness as seemed to fill the courtyard!

As he looked down, his imagination peopled the place with fierce-eyed enemies, each armed with a keen knife, and the perspiration gathered upon his face till the drops ran together and began to run down by the sides of his nose with a troublesome, tickling sensation.

It was horrible! A night like this would be just such a one as the enemy might choose for an attack, and, with the nervous excitement increasing, the lad leaned out as far as he could, wondering why he could not hear something of the sentries.

Then the whole of the northern sky was lit up by a pale, lambent sheet of lightning, and there beneath him was the courtyard, clearly seen, with the guns, limbers, and wagons; while, before the distant muttering of the thunder could reach his ears, the regular tramp of the sentry by the gate rose to where he stood.

"I don't wonder at little children being afraid to be in the dark,"

mused d.i.c.k. "How cowardly it does make one seem! It must be the peculiar feeling brought on by the coming storm. Ugh! if a flash were to strike our magazine!"

d.i.c.k left the window open and finished undressing. Then, throwing himself upon the light charpoy, which felt like everything else, hot, he closed his eyes so as to have a good sleep; and, as a matter of course, although he could hardly keep his eyes open when in the next room with his brother-officer, he felt now thoroughly wide-awake and as if sleep was the last thing possible.

It was as if every nerve had been sharpened and his senses made more acute.

The familiar ammoniacal odour known as "stables" stole in from the horses across the courtyard; he could hear stridulous crickets making their sharp, shrill, tooth-comb sounds in every direction; a moth was wearing out its wings against the ceiling; and through the sitting-room from the pa.s.sage outside came the heavy breathing of the men, who were quite content with the mat upon the floor.

Then there were the sentries' steps, and the fidgety movements of the horses, and the heat, and the absence of sleep, and the flickering of the lightning, and the distant mutterings of the storm, which came no nearer.

All together, and separately, every one of these trifles went on magnifying itself, till d.i.c.k felt as if he must get up and dress, so as to go out into the veranda and lie down to sleep there.

Then, all at once--nothingness, for a deep sleep had come at last.

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

A SMELL OF OIL.

"What's that?"

The question was not uttered aloud, but said mentally, as Richard Darrell suddenly unclosed his eyes and lay gazing in the direction of the window, seeing nothing, for all was pitchy dark. Cut there was the muttering of the distant thunder, the chirping of night insects, and the rustling about of the great moth against the ceiling.

What did it mean? Why should he have awakened so suddenly? There must have been a reason, and the question, "What's that?" seemed to be ringing in his ears.