“O you outrageous villain!” cried Harry, shaking his fist at the door, as he slowly gathered himself up; “I might have expected that.”
“Quite so,” said the doctor; “you might. It was very neatly done, undoubtedly. Wilson deserves credit for the way in which it was executed.”
“He deserves to be executed for doing it at all,” replied Harry, rubbing his elbow as he resumed his seat.
“Any bark knocked off?” inquired the accountant, as he took a piece of glowing charcoal from the stove wherewith to light his pipe. “Try a whiff, Harry. It’s good for such things. Bruises, sores, contusions, sprains, rheumatic affections of the back and loins, carbuncles and earache—there’s nothing that smoking won’t cure; eh, doctor?”
“Certainly. If applied inwardly, there’s nothing so good for digestion when one doesn’t require tonics—Try it, Harry; it will do you good, I assure you.”
“No, thank you,” replied Harry; “I’ll leave that to you and the chimney. I don’t wish to make a soot-bag of my mouth. But tell me, doctor, what do you mean to do with that lump of snow there?”
Harry pointed to a mass of snow, of about two feet square, which lay on the floor beside the door. It had been placed there by the doctor some time previously.
“Do with it? Have patience, my friend, and you shall see. It is a little surprise I have in store for Hamilton.”
As he spoke, the door opened, and a short, square-built man rushed into the room, with a pistol in one hand and a bright little bullet in the other.
“Hollo, skipper!” cried Harry, “what’s the row?”
“All right,” cried the skipper; “here it is at last, solid as the fluke of an anchor. Toss me the powder-flask Harry; look sharp, else it’ll melt.”
A powder-flask was immediately produced, from which the skipper hastily charged the pistol, and rammed down the shining bullet.
“Now then,” said he, “look out for squalls. Clear the decks there.”
And rushing to the door, he flung it open, took a steady aim at something outside, and fired.
“Is the man mad?” said the accountant, as with a look of amazement he beheld the skipper spring through the doorway, and immediately return bearing in his arms a large piece of fir plank.
“Not quite mad yet,” he said, in reply, “but I’ve sent a ball of quicksilver through an inch plank, and that’s not a thing to be done every day—even _here_, although it _is_ cold enough sometimes to freeze up one’s very ideas.”