CHAPTER XII

THE WAR BOARD

“Rigmarole?” drawled Heywood, and abstained from glancing at Chantel.  “Dare say.  However, Gilly, their rigmarole may mean business.  On that supposition, I made my notes urgent to you chaps.”

“Quite right,” said Mr. Forrester, tugging his gray moustache, and studying the floor.  “Obviously.  Rigmarole or not, your plan is thoroughly sound:  stock one house, and if the pinch comes, fortify.”

Chantel drummed on Heywood’s long table, and smiled quaintly, with eyes which roved out at window, and from mast to bare mast of the few small junks that lay moored against the distant bank.  He bore himself, to-day, like a lazy cock of the walk.  The rest of the council, Nesbit, Teppich, Sturgeon, Kempner, and the great snow-headed padre, surrounded the table with heat-worn, thoughtful faces.  When they looked up, their eyes went straight to Heywood at the head; so that, though deferring to his elders, the youngest man plainly presided.

Chantel turned suddenly, merrily, his teeth flashing in a laugh.

“If we are then afraid, let us all take a jonc down the river,” he scoffed, “or the next vessel for Hongkong!”

Gilly’s tired, honest eyes saw only the plain statement.

“Impossible.”  He shook his bullet head.  “We can’t run away from a rumor, you know.  Can we, now?  The women, perhaps.  But we should lose face no end—­horribly.”

“Let’s come to facts,” urged Heywood.  “Arms, for example.  What have we?  To my knowledge, one pair of good rifles, mine and Sturgeon’s.  Ammunition—­uncertain, but limited.  Two revolvers:  my Webley.450, and that little thing of Nesbit’s, which is not man-stopping.  Shot-guns?  Every one but you, padre:  fit only for spring snipe, anyway, or bamboo partridge.  Hackh has just taken over, from this house, the only real weapons in the settlement—­one dozen old Mausers, Argentine, calibre.765.  My predecessor left ’em, and three cases of cartridges.  I’ve kept the guns oiled, and will warrant the lot sound.—­Now, who’ll lend me spare coolies, and stuff for sand-bags?”

“Over where?” puffed Sturgeon.  “Where’s he taking your Mausers?”

“Nunnery, of course.”

“Oh, I say!” Mr. Forrester looked up, with an injured air.  “As the senior here, except Dr. Earle, I naturally thought the choice would be my house.”

“Right!” cried two or three voices from the foot of the table.  “It should be—­Farthest off—­”

All talked at once, except Chantel, who eyed them leniently, and smiled as at so many absurd children.  Kempner—­a pale, dogged man, with a pompous white moustache which pouted and bristled while he spoke—­rose and delivered a pointless oration.  “Ignoring race and creed,” he droned, “we must stand together—­”

Heywood balanced a pencil, twirled it, and at last took to drawing.  On the polished wood he scratched, with great pains, the effigy of a pig, whose snout blared forth a gale of quarter-notes.