Array Коллектив авторов - 30 лучших рассказов американских писателей

Bertie was too busy wondering how he could get away to TulagI to the Commissioner’s house, to see much of the view. He was still wondering, when a rifle exploded very near to him, behind his back. At the same moment his arm was nearly dislocated, so eagerly did Mr. Harriwell drag him indoors.

‘I say, old man, that was a close shave,’ said the manager, pawing him over to see if he had been hit. ‘I can’t tell you how sorry I am. But it was broad daylight, and I never dreamed.’

Bertie was beginning to turn pale.

‘They got the other manager that way,’ McTavish vouchsafed. ‘And a dashed fine chap he was. Blew his brains out all over the veranda. You noticed that dark stain there between the steps and the door?’

Bertie was ripe for the cocktail which Mr. Harriwell pitched in and compounded for him; but before he could drink it, a man in riding trousers and puttees entered.

‘What’s the matter now?’ the manager asked, after one look at the newcomer’s face. ‘Is the river up again?’

‘River be blowed – it’s the niggers. Stepped out of the cane grass, not a dozen feet away, and whopped at me. It was a Snider, and he shot from the hip. Now what I want to know is where’d he get that Snider? – Oh, I beg pardon. Glad to know you, Mr. Arkwright.’

‘Mr. Brown is my assistant,’ explained Mr. Harriwell. ‘And now let’s have that drink.’

‘But where’d he get that Snider?’ Mr. Brown insisted. ‘I always objected to keeping those guns on the premises.’

‘They’re still there,’ Mr. Harriwell said, with a show of heat.

Mr. Brown smiled incredulously.

‘Come along and see,’ said the manager.

Bertie joined the procession into the office, where Mr. Harriwell pointed triumphantly at a big packing case in a dusty corner.

‘Well, then where did the beggar get that Snider?’ harped Mr. Brown.

But just then McTavish lifted the packing case. The manager started, then tore off the lid. The case was empty. They gazed at one another in horrified silence. Harriwell drooped wearily.

Then McVeigh cursed.

‘What I contended all along – the house-boys are not to be trusted.’

‘It does look serious,’ Harriwell admitted, ‘but we’ll come through it all right. What the sanguinary niggers need is a shaking up. Will you gentlemen please bring your rifles to dinner, and will you, Mr. Brown, kindly prepare forty or fifty sticks of dynamite. Make the fuses good and short. We’ll give them a lesson. And now, gentlemen, dinner is served.’

One thing that Bertie detested was rice and curry, so it happened that he alone partook of an inviting omelet. He had quite finished his plate, when Harriwell helped himself to the omelet. One mouthful he tasted, then spat out vociferously.

‘That’s the second time,’ McTavish announced ominously.

Harriwell was still hawking and spitting.

‘Second time, what?’ Bertie quavered.

‘Poison,’ was the answer. ‘That cook will be hanged yet.’

‘That’s the way the bookkeeper went out at Cape March,’ Brown spoke up. ‘Died horribly. They said on the Jessie that they heard him screaming three miles away.’

‘I’ll put the cook in irons,’ sputtered Harriwell. ‘Fortunately we discovered it in time.’

Bertie sat paralyzed. There was no color in his face. He attempted to speak, but only an inarticulate gurgle resulted. All eyed him anxiously.

‘Don’t say it, don’t say it,’ McTavish cried in a tense voice.

‘Yes, I ate it, plenty of it, a whole plateful!’ Bertie cried explosively, like a diver suddenly regaining breath.

The awful silence continued half a minute longer, and he read his fate in their eyes.

‘Maybe it wasn’t poison after all,’ said Harriwell, dismally.

‘Call in the cook,’ said Brown.

In came the cook, a grinning black boy, nose-spiked and ear-plugged.

‘Here, you, Wi-wi, what name that?’ Harriwell bellowed, pointing accusingly at the omelet.

Wi-wI was very naturally frightened and embarrassed.

‘Him good fella kai-kai,’ he murmured apologetically.

‘Make him eat it,’ suggested McTavish. ‘That’s a proper test.’

Harriwell filled a spoon with the stuff and jumped for the cook, who fled in panic.

‘That settles it,’ was Brown’s solemn pronouncement. ‘He won’t eat it.’

‘Mr. Brown, will you please go and put the irons on him?’ Harriwell turned cheerfully to Bertie. ‘It’s all right, old man, the Commissioner will deal with him, and if you die, depend upon it, he will be hanged.’

‘Don’t think the government’ll do it,’ objected McTavish.

‘But gentlemen, gentlemen,’ Bertie cried. ‘In the meantime think of me.’

Harriwell shrugged his shoulders pityingly.

‘Sorry, old man, but it’s a native poison, and there are no known antidotes for native poisons. Try and compose yourself and if – ’

Two sharp reports of a rifle from without, interrupted the discourse, and Brown, entering, reloaded his rifle and sat down to table.

‘The cook’s dead,’ he said. ‘Fever. A rather sudden attack.’

‘I was just telling Mr. Arkwright that there are no antidotes for native poisons – ’

‘Except gin,’ said Brown.

Harriwell called himself an absent-minded idiot and rushed for the gin bottle.

‘Neat, man, neat,’ he warned Bertie, who gulped down a tumbler two-thirds full of the raw spirits, and coughed and choked from the angry bite of it till the tears ran down his cheeks.

Harriwell took his pulse and temperature, made a show of looking out for him, and doubted that the omelet had been poisoned. Brown and McTavish also doubted; but Bertie discerned an insincere ring in their voices. His appetite had left him, and he took his own pulse stealthily under the table. There was no question but what it was increasing, but he failed to ascribe it to the gin he had taken. McTavish, rifle in hand, went out on the veranda to reconnoiter.

‘They’re massing up at the cook-house,’ was his report. ‘And they’ve no end of Sniders. My idea is to sneak around on the other side and take them in flank. Strike the first blow, you know. Will you come along, Brown?’

Harriwell ate on steadily, while Bertie discovered that his pulse had leaped up five beats. Nevertheless, he could not help jumping when the rifles began to go off. Above the scattering of Sniders could be heard the pumping of Brown’s and McTavish’s Winchesters – all against a background of demoniacal screeching and yelling.

‘They’ve got them on the run,’ Harriwell remarked, as voices and gunshots faded away in the distance.

Scarcely were Brown and McTavish back at the table when the latter reconnoitered.

‘They’ve got dynamite,’ he said.

‘Then let’s charge them with dynamite,’ Harriwell proposed.

Thrusting half a dozen sticks each into their pockets and equipping themselves with lighted cigars, they started for the door. And just then it happened. They blamed McTavish for it afterward, and he admitted that the charge had been a trifle excessive. But at any rate it went off under the house, which lifted up cornerwise and settled back on its foundations. Half the china on the table was shattered, while the eight-day clock stopped. Yelling for vengeance, the three men rushed out into the night, and the bombardment began.

When they returned, there was no Bertie. He had dragged himself away to the office, barricaded himself in, and sunk upon the floor in a gin-soaked nightmare, wherein he died a thousand deaths while the valorous fight went on around him. In the morning, sick and headachey from the gin, he crawled out to find the sun still in the sky and God presumable in heaven, for his hosts were alive and uninjured.