XLI. — THE PROPHECY
Reaching the top of the jade steps, Chick found
the landing to be a great dais, nearly a hundred feet across. On the right and
left this dais was hedged in by the silver walls, on each of which was hung a
huge, golden scrollwork. These scrolls bore legends, which for the moment Chick
ignored. At the rear of the dais was a large object like a bronze bell.
The floor was of the usual mosaic, except in the
centre, where there was a plain, circular design. Chick took careful note of
this, a circle about twenty feet across, as white and unbroken as a bed of
frozen snow. Whether it was stone or not he could not determine. All around its
edge was a gap that separated it from the dais, a gap several inches across.
Chick turned to Geos:
“The Spot of Life?”
“Even so. It is the strangest thing in all the
Thomahlia, my lord. Can you feel it?”
For Watson had reached out with his toe and
touched the white surface. He drew it back suddenly.
“It has a feeling,” he replied, “that I cannot
describe. It is cold, and yet it is not. Perhaps it is my own magnetism.”
“Ah! It is well, my lord!”
What the Rhamda meant by that Chick could not
tell. He was interested in the odd white substance. It was as smooth as glass,
although at intervals there were faint, almost imperceptible, dark lines, like
the finest scratches in old ivory. Yet the whiteness was not dazzling. Again
Watson touched it with his foot, and noted the inexplicable feeling of
exhilaration. In the moment of absorption he quite forgot the concourse about
him. He knew that he was now standing on the crux of the Blind Spot.
But in a minute he turned. The dais was a sort of
nave, with one end open to the stairway. Seated on his left was the frail
Aradna, occupying a small throne-like chair of some translucent green material.
On the right sat the Bar Senestro, in a chair differing only in that its colour
was a bright blue. In the centre of the dais stood a third chair—a crimson
one—empty.
The Senestro stood up. He was royally clad, his
breast gleaming with jewels. He was certainly handsome; he had the carriage of
confident royalty. There was no fear in this man, no uncertainty, no weakness.
If confidence were a thing of strength, the Senestro was already the victor. In
his heart Chick secretly admired him.
But just then the Aradna stood up, She made an
indication to Watson. He stepped over to the queen. She sat down again.
“I want to give you my benediction, stranger lord.
Are you sure of yourself? Can you overcome the Senestro?”
“I am certain,” spoke Watson. “It is for the
queen, O Aradna. I know nothing of the prophecy; but I will fight for you!”
She blushed and cast a furtive look in the
direction of the Senestro.
“It is well,” she spoke. “The outcome will have a
double interpretation—the spiritual one of the prophecy, and the earthly,
material one that concerns myself. If you conquer, my lord, I am freed. I would
not marry the Senestro; I love him not. I would abide by the prophet, and await
the chosen.” She hesitated. “What do you know of the chosen, my lord?”
“Nothing, O Aradna.”
“Has not the Rhamda Geos told you?”
“Partly, but not fully. There is something that he
is withholding.”
“Very likely. And now—will you kneel, my lord?”
Watson knelt. The queen held out her hand. Behind
him Chick could hear a deep murmur from the assembled multitudes. Just what was
the significance of that sound he did not know; nor did he care. It was enough
for him that he was to fight for this delicately beautiful maiden. He would let
the prophecy take care of itself.
Besides these three on the dais there were only
the Rhamda Geos and the Jan Lucar. These two remained on the edge nearest the
body of the temple, the edge at the crest of the stair. The empty chair
remained so.
Suddenly Chick remembered the warning of Dr.
Holcomb: “Read the words of the Prophet.” And he took advantage of the
breathing-spell to peruse the legends on the great golden scrolls:
THE PROPHECY OF THE JARADOS
Behold! When the day is at hand,
prepare ye!
For, when that day cometh, ye
shall have signs and portents from the world beyond. Wisdom cometh out of life,
and life walketh out of wisdom. Yea, in the manner of life and of spirit ye
shall have them, and of substance even like unto you yourselves.
And it shall come to pass in the
last days, that we shall be on guard. By these signs ye shall know them; even
by the truths I have taught thee. The way of life is an open door; wisdom and
virtue are its keys. And when the intelligence shall be lifted to the plane above—then
shalt thou know!
Mark ye well the Spot of Life!
He that openeth it is the precursor of judgment. Mark him well!
And thus shall the last days
come to pass. See that ye are worthy, O wise ones! For behold in those last
days there shall come among ye—
The chosen of a line of kings.
First there shall be one, and then there shall be two; and the two shall stay
but the one shall return.
The false ones. Them ye shall
slay!
The four footed: The call to
humility, sacrifice and devotion, whom ye shall hold in reverence even as you
hold me, the Jarados.
And on the last day of all—I,
the Jarados!
Beware ye of sacrilege! Lest I
take from ye all that I have given ye, and the day be postponed—beware ye of
sacrilege!
And if the false ones cometh
not, ye shall know that I have held them. Know ye the day!
Sixteen days from the day of the
prophet, shall come the day of the judgment; and the way shall be opened, on
the last day, the sixteenth day of the Jarados.
Hearken to the words of the
Jarados, the prophet and mouthpiece of the infinite intelligence, ruler of
justice, peace, and love! So be it forever!
Chick read it a second time. Like all prophecies,
it was somewhat Delphic; but he could get the general drift. In that golden
script he was looking into the heart of all Thomahlia—into its greatness, its
culture, its civilisation itself. It was the soul of the Blind Spot, the reason
and the wherefore of all about him.
He heard someone step up behind him, and he
turned. It was the Senestro, going over the words of the prophecy.
“Can you read it, Sir Phantom?” asked the handsome
Bar. His black eyes were twinkling with delight. “Have you read it all?”
He put a hand on Chick's shoulder. It was a
careless act, almost friendly. Either he had the heart of a devil or the
chivalry of a paladin. He pointed to a line:
“'The false ones. Them ye shall slay.'”
“And if I were the false one, you would slay me?”
asked Watson.
“Aye, truly!” answered the splendid prince. “You
are well made and good to look upon. I shall hold you in my arms; I shall hear
your bones crack; it shall be sweeter music than that of the temple pheasants,
who never sing but for the Jarados. I shall slay you upon the Spot, Sir
Phantom!”
Watson turned on his heel. The ethics of the
Senestro were not of his own code. He was not afraid; he stood beside the Jan
Lucar and gazed out into the body of the temple. As far as he could see, under
and past the fourteen great pillars and right up to the far wall, the floor was
a vast carpet of humanity.
It was become dark. Presently a new kind of light
began to glow far overhead, gradually increasing in strength until the whole
place was suffused with a sun-like illumination. The Rhamda Geos began to
speak.
“In the last day, in the Day of Life. We have the
substance of ourselves, and the words of the prophet. The Jarados has written
his prophecy in letters of gold, for all to see. 'The false ones. Them ye shall
slay.' It is the will of the Rhamdas that the great Bar Senestro shall try the
proof of the occult. On this, the first of the Sixteen Days, the test shall
be—on the Spot of Life!”
He turned away. The Bar Senestro stripped off his
jewels, his semi-armour, and stood clad in the manner of Watson. They advanced
and met in the centre of the dais, two athletes, lithe, strong, handsome, their
muscles aquiver with vitality and their skins silken with health. Champions of
two worlds, to wrestle for truth!
A low murmur arose, increasing until it filled the
whole coliseum. The silver-bronze pheasants flitted above the heads of all,
flashing like fragments of the spirit of light. And all of a sudden—
One of them fluttered down and lit on Watson's
shoulder.
The murmur of the throng dropped to a dead
silence. Next moment a stranger thing happened. The little creature broke forth
in full-throated song.
Watson instantly remembered the words of the Bar
Senestro: “They sing but for the Jarados.” He quietly reached up and caught the
songster in his hand, and he held it up to the astonished crowd. Still the song
continued. Chick held him an instant longer, and then gave him a toss high into
the air. He shot across the temple, a streak of melody, silver, dulcet, to the
far corner of the giant building.
But the thing did not jar the Senestro.
“Well done, Sir Phantom! Anyhow, 'tis your last
play! I would not have it otherwise. I hope you can die as prettily! Are you
ready?”
“Ready? What for?” retorted Watson. “Why, should I
trouble myself with preparations?”
But the Rhamda Geos had now come to his side.
“Do your best, my lord. I regret only that it must
be to the death. It is the first death contest in the Thomahlia for a thousand
circles (years). But the Senestro has challenged the prophecy. Prove that you
are not a false one! My heart is with you.”
It was a good word at a needed moment. Watson
stepped over onto the circular Spot of Life.
They were both barefooted. Evidently the
Thomahlians fought in the old, classic manner. The stone under Watson's feet
was cool and invigorating. He could sense anew that quiver of magnetism and
strength. It sent a thrill through his whole body, like the subtle quickening
of life. He felt vital, joyous, confident.
The Senestro was smiling, his eyes flashing with
anticipation. His muscled body was a network of soft movement. His step was
catlike.
“What will it be?” inquired Watson. “Name your
choice of destruction.”
But the Bar shook his head.
“Not so, Sir Phantom. You shall choose the manner
of your death, not I. Particular I am not, nor selfish.”
“Make it wrestling, then,” in his most off-hand
manner. He was a good wrestler, and scientific.
“Good. Are you ready?”
“Quite.”
“Very well, Sir Phantom. I shall walk to the edge
of the Spot and turn around. I would take no unfair advantage. Now!”
Chick turned at the same moment and strode to his
edge. He turned, and it happened; just what, Chick never knew. He remembered
seeing his opponent turn slowly about, and in the next split second he was
spinning in the clutch of a tiger. Even before they struck the stone, Chick
could feel the Senestro reaching for a death-hold.
And in that one second Watson knew that he was in
the grip of his master.
His mind functioned like lightning. His legs and
arms flashed for the counterhold that would save him. They struck the Spot and
rolled over and over. Chick caught his hold, but the Senestro broke it almost
instantly. Yet it had saved him; for a minute they spun around like a pair of
whirligigs. Watson kept on the defensive. He had not the speed and skill of the
other. It was no mere test to touch his shoulders; it was a fight to the death;
he was at a disadvantage. He worked desperately.
When a man fights for his life he becomes
superhuman. Watson was put to something more than his skill; the sheer spirit
of the Bar broke hold after hold; he was like lightning, panther-like, subtle,
vicious. Time after time he spun Chick out of his defense and bore him down
into a hold of death. And each time Chick somehow wriggled out, and saved
himself by a new hold. The struggle became a blur—muscle, legs, the lust for
killing—and hatred. Twice Watson essayed the offensive; first he got a hammer
lock, and then a half-Nelson. The Bar broke both holds immediately.
Whatever Chick knew of wrestling, the Senestro
knew just a bit more. It was a whirling mass of legs and bodies in continuous
convulsion, silent except for the terrible panting of the men, and the low,
stifled exclamations of the onlookers.
And then—
Watson grew weak. He tried once more. They spun to
their feet. But before he could act the Senestro had caught him in the same
flying rush as in the beginning, and had whirled him off his feet. And when he
came down the Bar had an unbreakable hold.
Chick struggled in vain. The Bar tightened his
grip. A spasm of pain shot through Chick's torso; he could feel his bones
giving way. His strength was gone; he could see death. Another moment would
have been the end.
But something happened. The Senestro miraculously
let go his hold. Chick felt something soft brush against his cheek. He heard a
queer snapping, and shouts of wonder, and a dreadful choking sound from the Bar.
He raised dizzily on one arm. His eyes cleared a bit.
The great Bar was on his back; and at his throat
was a snarling thing—the creature that Chick had seen in the clover leaf of the
Jarados.
It was a living dog.
XLII. — PAT MACPHERSON'S STORY
To Watson it was all a blur. He was too weak and
too broken to remember distinctly. He was conscious only of an uproar, of a
torrent of multitudinous sound. And then—the deep, enveloping tone of a bell.
Some time, somewhere, Chick had heard that bell
before. In his present condition his memory refused to serve him. He was
covered with blood; he tried to rise, to crawl to this snarling animal that was
throttling the Senestro. But something seemed to snap within him, and all went
black.
When he opened his eyes again all had changed. He
was lying on a couch with a number of people about. It was a minute before he
recognized the Jan Lucar, then the Geos, and lastly the nurse whom he had first
seen when he awoke in the Blind Spot. Evidently he was in the hands of his friends,
although there was a new one, a red-headed man, clad in the blue uniform of a
high Bar.
He sat up. The nurse held a goblet of the green
liquid to his lips. The Bar in blue turned.
“Aye,” he said. “Give him some of the liquor; it
will do him good. It will put the old energy back in his bones.”
The voice rang oddly familiar in Watson's ears.
The words were Thomahlian; not until Chick had drained his glass did he
comprehend their significance.
“Who are you?” he asked.
The Bar with the red hair grinned.
“Whist, me lad,” using Chick's own tongue. “Get
rid of these Thomahlians. 'Tis a square game we're playin', but we're takin' no
chances. Get 'em out of the way so we kin talk.”
Watson turned to the others. He made the request
in his adopted tongue. They bowed, reverently, and withdrew.
“Who are you?” Chick asked again.
“Oi'm Pat MacPherson.”
“How did you get here?”
The other sat on the edge of the bed. “Faith, how
kin Oi tell ye? 'Twas a drink, sor; a new kind av a high-ball, th' trickery av
a friend an' th' ould Witch av Endor put togither.”
Obviously Watson did not understand. The stranger
continued: “Faith, sor, an' no more do Oi. There's no one as does, 'cept th'
ould doc hisself.”
“The old doc! You mean Dr. Holcomb?”
Watson sat up in his bed. “Where is he?”
“In a safe place, me lad. Dinna fear for th'
doctor. 'Twas him as saved ye—him an' your humble sarvant, Pat MacPherson,
bedad.”
“He—and you—saved me?”
“Aye—there on th' Spot of Life. A bit of a thrick
as th' ould doc dug oot o' his wisdom. Sure, she dinna work jist loike he said
it, but 'twas a plenty t' oopset th' pretty Senestro!”
Watson asked, “What became of the Senestro?”
“Sure, they pulled him oot. Th' wee doggie jist
aboot had him done for. Bedad, she's a good pup!”
“What kind of a dog?”
“A foine wan, sor, wit a bit stub av a tail. An'
she's that intelligent, she kin jist about talk Frinch. Th' Thomahlians all
called her th' Four-footed, an' if they kape on, they'll jist aboot make her
th' Pope.”
Watson was still thick headed. “I don't understand!”
“Nor I laddie. But th' ould doc does. He's got a
foine head for figgers; and' he's that scientific, he kin make iron oot o'
rainbows.”
“Iron out of—what?”
“Rainbows, sor. Faith, 'tis meself thot's seen it.
And he's been watchin' over ye ever since ye came. 'Twas hisself, lad, that put
it into your head t' call him th' Jarados.”
“You don't mean to say that the professor put
those impulses into my head!”
“Aye, laddie; you said it. He kin build up a man's
thoughts just like you or me kin pile oop lumber. 'Tis that deep he is wit' th'
calculations!”
Watson tried to think. There was just one
superlative question now. He put it.
“I dinna know if he's th' Jarados,” was the reply.
“But if so be not, then he's his twin brother, sure enough.”
“Is he a prisoner?”
“I wouldna say that, though there's them as think
so. But if it be anybody as is holdin' him, 'tis the Senestro an' his gang o'
guards.”
Watson looked at the other's uniform, at the
purple shako on his head, the jewelled weapon at his side, and the Jaradic leaf
on his shoulder—insignia of a Bar of the highest rank.
“How does it come that you're a Bar, and a high
one at that?”
The other grinned again. He took off his shako and
ran his hand through his mop of red hair.
“'Tis aither th' luck of th' Irish, me lad, or of
th' Scotch. Oi don't ken which—Oi'm haff each—but mostly 'tis th' virtoo av me
bonny red hair.”
“Why?”
“Because, leastways, in th' Thomahlia, there's
always a dhrop av royalty in th' red-headed. Me bonnie top-knot has made me a
fortune. Ye see, 'tis th' mark av th' royal Bars themselves; no ithers have
it.”
Watson said: “If you have come from Dr. Holcomb,
then you must have a message from him to me.”
“Ye've said it; you an' me, an' a few Rhamdas, an'
mebbe th' wee queen is goin' t' take a flight in th' June Bug. We're goin'
afther th' ould doc; an' ye kin bet there'll be as pretty a scrap as ever ye
looked on. An' afther thot's all over, we're goin' t' take anither kind of a
flight—into good old Frisco.”
Chick instantly asked Pat if he knew where San
Francisco might be.
“Faith, 'tis only th' ould doc knows, laddie. But
when we git there, 'tis Pat MacPherson that's a goin' for Toddy Maloney.”
“I don't know that name.”
“Bedad, I do. Him it was thot give me th' dhrink.”
“What drink?”
Th' dhrink thot done it. Twas a new kind av
cocktail. Ye see, I'd jist got back from Melbourne, an' I was takin' in th'
lights that noight, aisy like, whin I come t' Toddy's place. I orders a dhrink
av whuskey.
“'Whist, Pat,' says he, 'ye don't want whuskey;
'twill make ye dhrunk. Why don't ye take somethin' green, like th' Irish?'
“'Green,” says I. ''Tis a foine colour. I dinna
fear anything thot comes fra' a bottle. Pass'er oot!'
“An' thot he did. 'Twas 'creme de menthay' on th'
bottle. 'An',' says he, ''Twon't make ye dhrunk.' But he was a liar, beggin'
yer pardin.
“For by an' by Oi see his head a growin' larger
an' larger, until Oi couldn't see annything but a few loights on th' cailing,
an' a few people on th' edges, loike. An' afther thot Oi wint oot, an' walked
till Oi come to a hill. An' there was a moon, an' a ould hoose standin' still,
which th' moon was not. So Oi stood still to watch it, but bein' tired an'
weary an' not havin' got rid o' me sea-legs, Oi sat me doon on th' steps av th'
hoose for a bit av a rest, an' t' watch th' moon, thinkin' mebbe she'd stand
still by an' by.
“Well, sor, Oi hadn't been there more'n three 'r
four minits, whin th' door opened, an' oot steps a little ould lady, aboot th'
littlest an' ouldest Oi iver see in 'Frisco.
“'Good avenin', Mother Machree,' says Oi, touchin'
me hat.
“'Mother Machree!' says she, an' gives me a sharp
look. Also she sniffs. 'Ye poor man,' says she. 'Ye'll catch yer death o' cold,
out here. Ye better coom in an' lie on me sofy.'
“Now, sor, how was Oi to ken, bein' a sailor an'
ingorant? She was only a ould lady, an' withered. How was Oi to ken thot she
was th' ould Witch o' Endor?”
Watson's memory was at work on what he knew of the
house at Chatterton Place, especially regarding its occupants at the beginning
of the Blind Spot mystery. The Bar's old remark caught his attention.
“The Witch of Endor?”
“Aye; thot she were. Whin Oi woke up, there was
nary a hoose at all, nor th' ould lady, nor Toddy Maloney's, nor 'Frisco. 'Twas
a strange place I was, sor; a church loike St. Peter's, only bigger, th' same
bein' harrd to belaive. An' th' columns looked loike waterspoots, an' th' sky
above was full av clouds, the same bein' jest aboot ready to break into hell
an' tempest. But ye've been there yerself, sor.
“Well, here was a man beside me, dressed in a
kilt. An' he spakes a strange language, although Oi could undershtand; and' he
says, says he:
“'My lord,' was what he says.
“'My lord!' says Oi. 'Oi dinna ken what ye mane at
all, at all.'
“'Are ye not a Bar?' says he.
“'Thot Oi am not!' says Oi, spakin' good English,
so's to be sure he'd understand. 'Oi'm Pat MacPherson.'
“But he couldn' ken. Thin we left th' temple an'
wint out into the street. An' a great crowd of people came aroun' an' began
shoutin'. By an' by we wint into anither buildin'.
“'For why sh'd iverybody look at me whin we
crossed th' street jest noo?' I asked.
“'Tis y'r clothes,' says he.
“Now, Oi don't enjoy pooblicity, sor; wherefore
th' wily Scotch in me told me what to do, an' th' Irish part of me did it. I
stood him on his head, an' took his clothes off an' put them on meself. An'
then no one noticed me. Thot is, until Oi took me hat off.”
“You mean, that shako?”
“Yis; th' blaemd heavy thing—'tis made o' blue
feathers. Well, whin it got so hot it made me scalp sweat, Oi took it off; an'
then they called me—'My lord' an' 'your worship,' jest loike Oi were a king.
“'Pray God,' says Oi, 'that me head dinna get
bald.'
“Well, sor, Oi had a toime that was fit for th'
Irish. Oi did iverything 'cept git drunk; there was nothin' to git drunk with.
But afther a while I ran across anither, wit' jest as red hair as I had. He was
a foine man, av coorse, an' all surrounded by blue guards. He took me into a
room himself an' begin askin' questions.
“An' I lied, sor. Av coorse, 'twas lucky thot Oi
had me Scotch larnin' an' caution to guide me; but whin Oi spoke, Oi wisely let
th' Irishman do all th' talkin'. An' th' great Bar liked me.
“'Verily,' says he, most solemnly, 'thou art of
th' royal Bars!' An' he made me a high officer, he did.”
“Was he the Bar Senestro?” asked Watson.
“Nay; 'twas a far better man—Senestro's brother,
that died not long after. When Oi saw th' Senestro, Oi had sinse enough to kape
me mouth shut. An' now Oi'm a high Bar—next to th' Senestro hisself! What's
more, sor, there's no one alive kens th' truth but yerself an' th' ould
doctor.”
It was a queer story, but in the light of all that
had gone before, wonderfully convincing. Watson began to see light breaking
through the darkness. “Now there are two,” the old lady at 288 Chatterton Place
had said to Jerome, when the detective came looking for the vanished professor.
Had she referred to Holcomb and MacPherson? Two had gone through the Blind
Spot, and two had come out—the Rhamda Avec and the Nervina. “Now there are
two,” she had said.
“Tell me a little more about Holcomb, Pat!”
“'Tis a short story. Oi can't tell ye much, owin'
to orders from the old gent hisself. He came shortly after th' death of the
first Bar, Senestro's brother. Seems there was some rumpus aboot th' old Rhamda
Avec, which same Oi always kept away from—him as was goin' to prove th'
spirits! Annyhow, we was guardin' th' temple awaitin' th' spook as was
promised. An' thot's how we got th' ould doc.
“But th' Rhamdas niver saw him. Th' Senestro
double-crossed 'em, an' slipped th' doctor oop to th' Palace av Light.”
“The Palace of—what?”
“The Palace av light, sor. Tis th' home av th'
Jarados. 'twas held always holy by th' Thomahlians; no man dared go within
miles av it; since the Jarados was here, t'ousands of years ago, no one at all
has been inside av it.
“But the Senestro knew that th' doctor was th'
real Jarados, at least he t'ought so; an' he wasna afraid o' him. He's na
coward, th' Senestro. He put th' doctor in th' Jarados' home! Only th' Prophecy
worries him at all.”
At last Watson was touching firm ground. Things
were beginning to link up—the Senestro, the professor, the Prophecy of the
Jarados.
“Well, sor, we Bars have kept th' ould doctor
prisoner there iver since he come, wit' none save me to give him a wee bit word
av comfort. But it dinna hurt th' old gent. Whin he finds all them balls an'
rainbows an' eddicated secrets, he forgets iverything else; he's contint wit
'his discovery. 'Tis th' wise head th' doctor has; an' Oi make no doobt he's
th' real Jarados.”
The red-haired man went on to say that the
professor knew of Chick's coming from the beginning. He immediately called in
MacPherson and gave him some orders, or rather directions, which the Irishman
could not understand. He knew only that he was to go to the Temple of the Leaf
and there touch certain objects in a certain way; also, he was to arrange to
get near Chick, and give him a word of cheer.
“But it dinna work as he said it, sor; he had
expected to catch th' Senestro. Instead, 'twas th' dog got th' Bar. A foine
pup, sor; she saved yer loife.”
“Where's the dog now?”
“She's on th' Spot av Life, sor. She willna leave
it. Tis a strange thing to see how she clings to it. Th' Rhamdas only come near
enough to feed her.”
Thus Chick learned that, as soon as he got well,
he and MacPherson were to seek the doctor, and help him to get away with the
secrets he had found, the truths behind the mystery of the Spot.
“An' 'tis a glorious fight there'll be, lad. Th'
Senestro's a game wan; he'll not give up, an' he'll not let go th' doctor till
he has to.”
This was not unwelcome news to Chick. A battle was
to his liking. It reminded him of the automatic pistol which he still had in
his pocket—the gun he had not thought to use in his desperate struggle with the
Bar Senestro.
“Pat,” said he, with a sudden inspriation, “when
you came through, did you have a firearm?”
MacPherson reached into his pocket and silently
produced a thirty-two calibre pistol, of another make than Chick's but using
the same ammunition. From another pocket he drew out a package carefully bound
with thread. He unrolled the contents. It was an old clay pipe!
“Oi came through,” he stated plaintively, “wit' two
guns; an' nary a bit av powder for ayther!”
Chick smiled. He searched his own pockets. First
he handed over his extra magazine full of cartridges, and then a full package
of smoking tobacco.
“Wirra, wirra!” shouted MacPherson. “Faith, an'
there's powder for both!” His hands shook as he hurried to cram the old pipe
full of tobacco. The cartridges could wait. He struck a light and gave a deep
sigh of content as he began to puff.
