The Complete Works of H. C. McNeile "Sapper". Sapper
round the bush, and he fired standing, the fraction of a second before the other man. Then he spun round and sank on his knees, while von Tarnim and I raced towards them.
I raised Jim up in my arms; the Baron had shot him through the shoulder. But it was a dreadful wound, and I stared at it in amazement. Even from such a short range the wound was almost incredible, and suddenly Jim opened his eyes and stared at me.
"He was using dum-dums," he said, and his voice was hard. "The swine was using dum-dums."
A shadow fell on me, and we looked up at Count von Tarnim. He had heard Jim's remark, and his face was stern.
"I apologise in the name of my country," he said with quiet dignity. "My principal cannot."
For the first time I looked at the Baron, and understood. Jim had shot him through the brain.
* * * * *
And so we came back to Khartoum. It was Count von Tarnim who came with me to see Colonel Latimer the instant we had got Jim stowed in hospital.
"A regrettable accident has taken place, sir," he remarked, with stiff military precision. "Baron Carl Stockmar, while following a lion with Mr. Maitland, was turned on suddenly by the brute. He fired, unfortunately missing the lion and hitting Mr. Maitland in the shoulder. The lion killed him, Mr. Maitland being unable to give any assistance owing to his wound."
The Colonel stared at him in thoughtful silence; the Adjutant stood stiffly by the side of his chair.
"Am I to understand, Count von Tarnim," he said at length, "that that is the information which will be conveyed to the Baron's friends in Germany? Just what you have told me?"
"Exactly that, sir—and nothing more," said the Count.
"Good," answered the Colonel, rising from his chair, and holding out his hand. "The officers of my regiment and myself will be very pleased if you will dine with us tonight."
III. — A GAME OF BLUFF
IT was three months before Jim came out of hospital, and even then his arm was stiff. The expanding bullet had torn the ligaments badly, and for quite a time the doctor had looked grave.
"A long course of electric massage is essential," he said emphatically. "Otherwise I warn you seriously that your arm may remain like that permanently. There's a wonderful new man in Paris: give you his name if you like."
"We might do worse, Dick," remarked Jim. "They tell me that there are worse places."
"Confound you," I said. "What about those two trunks of perfectly good clothes I left in Nagasaki?"
"What about your perfectly good uncle," he laughed, "who has left you all his money? Besides, we shall probably never get as far as Paris—so nothing matters."
We started anyway, and, amazing to relate, in the fullness of time we got there. But we had a little contretemps en route which might have ended very unpleasantly but for Jim. And it bore out in a rather remarkable manner one of his theories on life.
Jim is the least dogmatic man in the world, but there are certain things on which he holds definite opinions—very definite. Some of those opinions are hardly suitable for propagation in a Sunday School: some are—though they are not down in the text books. But they are all worth listening to. And the particular one to which I am alluding is his theory on the matter of Bluff. Moreover, since you can't get through life without bluff, it may be worth while stating it, as I once heard Jim state it to a youngster who asked his advice.
"Bluff, my son, is winning an unlimited jackpot with a queen-high hand from a fellow with three aces, and upsetting the table before you can be asked to show your openers. Bluff, my lad, is getting a man with a gun pointed at the pit of your stomach to look the other way for just long enough to allow you to alter the target. Bluff, my boy, is, in short, the art of winning a game with losing cards, and the essence of that art is to play the hand right through as if you held winners without a thought of failure. Not a touch of hesitation, not a moment of doubt."
And if ever there was a case when a game was won with losing cards, the affair at Monte Carlo was it.
When we left Port Said in a home-going P. & 0. we never intended going near the place. Paris was our destination via Marseilles, but you never can tell.
Incidentally the purser's humour had something to do with it, if such a great being as the purser has anything to do with arranging the menus. The Gulf of Lyons was at its worst, which means that food should be chosen with care. And to select pork chops for dinner simply shows a fiendish ingenuity not far short of diabolical. In tens and dozens weeping women and frenzied men lurched from the dining saloon, until but a bare score of hardened sinners were left endeavouring to conceal their unseemly mirth.
It was the uncontrolled joy of a very pretty girl sitting two tables away from us that principally attracted our attention. I had noticed an elderly man who had been sitting beside her rise suddenly and depart with a fixed and glassy stare in his eyes. And it being an ill wind in more senses than one, his place had immediately been taken by a boy who moved up from the other end of the table.
We knew the boy slightly—a great youngster by the name of Jack Rawson. He was in cotton at Alexandria—a junior member of one of the big firms, and he was returning to England on business. And after a while Jim turned to me with a faint smile and then looked across again at the pair of them.
"The only story in the world, old man," he remarked, "that is older than sea-sickness."
"Who is the girl?" I asked.
"An Australian, I think. Jack told me her name. Mother is at Nice, and I suppose the bird who fled from the crackling is Father."
We finished our dinner and went above. She was pitching very badly in a long following swell, and for an hour or so we strolled up and down the almost deserted deck. And it wasn't until we were thinking of a nightcap before turning in that we stumbled on Jack Rawson and the girl snugly ensconced in a sheltered corner. We tried to get away unnoticed, but the boy hailed Jim at once.
"Maitland," he cried, "I want to introduce you to Miss Melville, my fiancÚe."
Jim bowed gravely and smiled.
"My heartiest congratulations," he remarked. "A pork chop is sometimes a godsend, isn't it?"
"Poor old Daddy," said the girl with quick remorse. "I'd forgotten all about him. But I couldn't help laughing, because he always tells everyone he's never been sick in his life. I'd better go and see how he is."
"From my knowledge of the complaint," said Jim, "I don't think he'll thank you. Complete seclusion is generally the victim's one demand of life."
And so she stopped, and for a few minutes we talked. Young Jack, we gathered, was getting out at Marseilles, and going to meet her mother at Nice. Then he was going back overland so as to arrive in London at the same time as he would have done if he'd stuck to the boat. And then the question of his father would crop up. In fact, fathers loomed rather large on the horizon. For the engagement had only been fixed that night, and Mr. Melville was also in ignorance of the devastating effect of pork chops on the young and healthy. Which was where the trouble came in. Would he have sufficiently recovered by the following morning to make it advisable to spring the news on him? Or would he regard it as a mean advantage to have taken while he was otherwise employed? It was undoubtedly a point demanding careful consideration. So much depends on the way these matters are approached.
The girl was dubious. She was convinced that next morning would be fully occupied in listening to his explanations that it was not the rough sea which had caused his indisposition, but that his bit of fish at lunch had been slightly stale. The moment would not be opportune, she was sure. And that being the case, why should Jack suddenly alter his plan of going home by sea, and come to Nice? In fact, what was to be done? How could Jack come to Nice in an easy, natural manner, which