Desert 'em?
Damned if we do!" No one made reply.

The padre, who had looked up, looked down quickly, musing, and smoothed his white hair with big fingers that somewhat trembled.
"Besides," continued the speaker, in a tone of apology, "we'll need 'em to man the works.

Meantime, you chaps must lend coolies, eh?
Look here." With rising spirits, he traced an eager finger along the map.

"I must run a good strong bamboo scaffold along the inside wall, with plenty of sand-bags ready for loopholing--specially atop the servants' quarters and pony-shed, and in that northeast angle, where we'll throw up a mound or platform .-- What do you say?
Suggestions, please!" Chantel, humming a tune, reached for his helmet, and rose.

He paused, struck a match, and in an empty glass, shielding the flame against the breeze of the punkah, lighted a cigarette.
"Since we have appointed our dictator," he began amiably, "we may repose--" From the landing, without, a coolie bawled impudently for the master of the house.
"Wutzler!" said Heywood, jumping up.