Free Round the Fire Stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle Page A

voice, calling to them from afar and bidding them to be of good cheer, since help was coming. It was clear that the landing party from the squadron was well on its way. It would not arrive an hour too soon. The cartridges were nearly finished. Their half rations of food would soon dwindle to an even more pitiful supply. But what need to worry about that now that relief was assured? There would be no attack that day, as most of the Boxers could be seen streaming off in the direction of the distant firing, and the long lines of sangars were silent and deserted. They were all able, therefore, to assemble at the lunch table, a merry, talkative party, full of that joy of living which sparkles most brightly under the imminent shadow of death.
    â€œThe pot of caviare!” cried Ainslie. “Come, Professor, out with the pot of caviare!”
    â€œPotz-tausend! yes,” grunted old Dresler. “It is certainly time that we had that famous pot.”
    The ladies joined in and from all parts of the long, ill-furnished table there came the demand for caviare.
    It was a strange time to ask for such a delicacy, but the reason is soon told. Professor Mercer, the old Californian entomologist, had received a jar of caviare in a hamper of goods from San Francisco, arriving a day or two before the outbreak. In the general pooling and distribution of provisions this one dainty and three bottles of Lachryma Christi from the same hamper had been excepted and set aside. By common consent they were to be reserved for the final joyous meal when the end of their peril should be in sight. Even as they sat the thud-thud of the relieving guns came to their ears—more luxurious music to their lunch than the most sybaritic restaurant of London could have supplied. Before evening the relief would certainly be there. Why, then, should their stale bread not be glorified by the treasured caviare?
    But the Professor shook his gnarled old head and smiled his inscrutable smile.
    â€œBetter wait,” said he.
    â€œWait! Why wait?” cried the company.
    â€œThey have still far to come,” he answered.
    â€œThey will be here for supper at the latest,” said Ralston, of the railway—a keen, birdlike man, with bright eyes and long, projecting nose. “They cannot be more than ten miles from us now. If they only did two miles an hour it would make them due at seven.”
    â€œThere is a battle on the way,” remarked the Colonel. “You will grant two hours or three hours for the battle.”
    â€œNot half an hour,” cried Ainslie. “They will walk through them as if they were not there. What can these rascals with their matchlocks and swords do against modern weapons?”
    â€œIt depends on who leads the column of relief,” said Dresler. “If they are fortunate enough to have a German officer—”
    â€œAn Englishman for my money!” cried Ralston.
    â€œThe French commodore is said to be an excellent strategist,” remarked Father Pierre.
    â€œI don’t see that it matters a toss,” cried the exuberant Ainslie. “Mr. Mauser and Mr. Maxim are the two men who will see us through, and with them on our side no leader can go wrong. I tell you they will just brush them aside and walk through them. So now, Professor, come on with that pot of caviare!”
    But the old scientist was unconvinced.
    â€œWe shall reserve it for supper,” said he.
    â€œAfter all,” said Mr. Patterson, in his slow, precise Scottish intonation, “it will be a courtesy to our guests—the officers of the relief—if we have some palatable food to lay before them. I’m in agreement with the Professor that we reserve the caviare for supper.”
    The argument appealed to their sense of hospitality. There was something pleasantly chivalrous, too, in the idea of keeping their one little delicacy to give a savor to the meal of their preservers. There was no more talk of the