On the contrary, I dragged reluctantly back to
consciousness and the realization that they had quite happily settled
down to make a night of it. I glanced across the little tent to where
Captain D. lay on his cot. He was staring straight upward, his eyes wide
open.
After a few seconds he slipped out softly and silently. Our little fire
had sunk to embers. A dozen sticks radiated from the centre of coals.
Each made a firebrand with one end cool to the grasp. Captain D. hurled
one of these at the devoted and unconscious group.
It whirled through the air and fell plunk in the other fire, scattering
sparks and coals in all directions. The second was under way before the
first had landed. It hit a native with similar results, plus astonished
and grieved language. The rest followed in rapid-magazine-fire. Every
one hit its mark fair and square. The air was full of sparks exploding
in all directions. The brush was full of Wakamba, their blankets
flapping in the breeze of their going. The convention was adjourned.
There fell the sucking vacuum of a great silence. Captain D., breathing
righteous wrath, flopped heavily and determinedly down on his cot. I
caught a faint snicker from the tent next door.
Captain D. sighed deeply, turned over, and prepared to sleep. Then one
of the dogs uprose--I think it was Ben--stretched himself, yawned,
approached deliberately, and began to drink from the canvas bath-tub
just outside.
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