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Chapter Thirty Eight
“Suppose we leave them there.”

Month later the people at the hong had repaired all damages, and paint and varnish had hidden unpleasantly suggestive marks; while in two months the loss was almost forgotten in the increase of trade consequent upon the peace existing in the district, maintained by an occasional visit of the gunboat upon the station, ready always to quench every piratical spark that appeared.

At first Stan had declared that he should never be able to feel settled up the river; but he did, for there was always something animated and new about the station to which the peaceful traders flocked, knowing as they did that all transactions with the English merchants meant perfect faith and nothing akin to dealings with the squeezing mandarins. In fact, the lad began to think that his busy life to and fro was, after all, one of the most happy, and that he might pick out his father and uncle as fine specimens of what English merchants might be.

“I begin to think, Uncle Jeff,” he said one day, “that a young fellow might do worse than become a merchant out here.”

“Well, yes,” said Uncle Jeff, with a smile; “he might – yes, certainly he might.”

It was one evening when Uncle Jeff, Blunt, and Stan were talking over the old trouble of the past – that is to say, about the traitor in the camp.

“Well, for my part,” said Uncle Jeff, “I give all my votes – plumpers – for poor old Wing. He never tried to destroy the ammunition. He’s true as steel.”

“I second that,” said Blunt. – “Now, Lynn, what do you say?”

“That it’s cruel to the poor fellow even to think of such a thing. I’d trust him anywhere.”

“Same here,” said Uncle Jeff.

“Same here,” said Blunt. “It must have been one of those fellows who had charge of the water-casks, but which we shall never know, for they will not split upon one another. Anyhow, they’ve fought well for us, and the only thing to be done is to let the matter drop.”

“As far as we can,” said Uncle Jeff very gravely. “It’s a serious thing, though.”

“Very,” replied Blunt; “and I’ve dwelt upon it time after time, till my head has been all in a whirl. You see, it was just when I was at my worst, and I can remember in my half-delirious state being in a terrible fright lest one of those stink-pots should come in, roll down the stairs, and then go bounding down and reach the magazine. It was like a nightmare to me. – And you remember, Stan, that, bad though I was, I sent Wing up to tell you of the need for being careful.”

“Oh yes, I remember,” said Stan.

“And even then I didn’t feel at rest,” continued Blunt, talking quickly, and seeming as if every incident connected with the first attack had come vividly back to his mind. “It was horrible, and what with the torture of my wound and that caused by anxiety lest any accident should happen to the powder, I felt as if I didn’t know what I was about. Now it was the wound, and now it was my head, and altogether it was like a terrible dream, all worry and bewildering excitement, till the pain and feverishness of my hurt were as nothing to the agony and dread lest the place should be blown up. It was then that I felt that something more must be done or the place would go, and I sent Wing to warn you, Lynn.”

“Yes; of course. I thought that you must be in a great state of fidget – and no wonder.”

“Fidget doesn’t express it, Lynn. I was – Bless me! How strange! How – ”

Blunt stopped short, looking in a bewildered way from one to the other, and ending by clapping his hand to his forehead and holding it there.

“What’s the matter, Blunt?” said Uncle Jeff quietly.

“Nothing – nothing – only it seems so strange – so queer. My head – my head!”

“Lie back in that chair. – Stan, fill a glass with water.”

“No, no; nonsense!” cried Blunt impatiently. “I’m all right now, only it’s my head. So strange!”

“Yes; you’ve been talking a little too much. You see, you are still weak.”

“Rubbish!” cried Blunt angrily. “You don’t understand. It’s my head. Something seems to have broken or fallen there so that I can see quite clearly.”

“Drink that water,” said Uncle Jeff sternly; and in obedience to the command the manager took the glass Stan handed to him, drained it, and set it down.

“Refreshing?”

“Yes, very. – But how strange!”

“Is it?” said Uncle Jeff quietly.

“Yes. It’s almost awful,” said Blunt excitedly. “Only a little while ago.”

“Here, I say, hadn’t you better leave off talking?” said Uncle Jeff gruffly.

“Lie down on the mats for a few minutes,” said Stan. “I’ll roll one up for a pillow.”

“Absurd!” cried Blunt. “You two are fancying that I am ill, when something that has been clogging my brain has broken or been swept away – I can’t tell which; I only know that I’m quite well again once more, and see everything clearly in connection with that business. I remember – Yes: that’s it.”

Stan glanced at Uncle Jeff, who frowned and looked puzzled as to what was best to be done. In his eyes the manager was going quite off his head.

For Blunt had begun to pace the office rapidly, and went on muttering to himself as he gazed straight before him, ending by stopping short at the office table and bringing one hand down with a heavy bang which made the ink leap in the stand.

“Have another glass of water,” said Uncle Jeff; and Stan started to get it, but stopped short.

“Don’t run away, Lynn,” cried Blunt. “This is interesting. How some doctors would like to know! It has all come back now, but I must have been off my head or I shouldn’t have acted so, of course. Half-an-hour ago I didn’t know I had done it, but I do know now. Talking about the matter seems to have cleared away the last of the mental cobwebs that have been worrying me.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” said Uncle Jeff impatiently; “but you really had better have a nap.”

Blunt smiled as he looked at the speaker.

“You think I’m a little queer still,” he said.

“Oh no,” replied Uncle Jeff; “only tired and over-excited.”

“Not a bit,” replied Blunt, “I’m all right, I tell you, and I can see clearly now how that trouble came about the cartridges being wet.”

“Indeed!” said Uncle Jeff. “Well, how did it come about?”

“I drowned them with water, of course.”

“You did?” said Stan, staring. “Nonsense!”

“Yes, nonsense!” said Uncle Jeff. “You wouldn’t have done such a thing as that!”

“If I had been in my senses – no. But I was not. I was wildly excited and delirious from my wound, and there was that idea pressing upon me that one of the stink-pots would roll down blazing from the upper floor and explode the cartridges. It was while I was more sane that I sent Wing to you, Lynn, with that message, but as soon as he had gone the trouble increased. I felt that he would not get there in time, and I got up and went round to the back of the warehouse, picked up one of the buckets of water, and while the men in charge of the casks were on the stairs watching you and the others keeping up the firing, I poured the water into the last case of cartridges, chuckling to myself at my cleverness, and saying that there was no fear now.”

“You laughed and said that?” cried Stan sceptically.

“I did. I remember it perfectly now, even to my feeling of satisfaction at having saved the place from all risk of destruction in that way. Yes, and I can remember lying down again and shutting my eyes because I heard Wing coming. Yes, there it all is, as plain as if I were looking at myself now. I can remember, too, the feeling of rest and content that came, and with it the return of the throbbing pain, till I fainted or fell asleep, to wake with my mind quite blank, knowing nothing whatever of my acts, and being ready to join in accusing poor old Wing. But there! it was the act of a man quite off his head, doing about as double-edged an act as was ever committed. Queer – eh, Lynn?”

“Queer? Well, I don’t know what to call it,” said Stan, “but I hope you’ll never do such a thing again.”

“I promise you I will not so long as I escape being shot through the shoulder,” said Blunt, smiling; “but if I am wounded like that I will not answer for the consequences.”

Suppose we leave them there.