" said the Major; "we must call for volunteers, Sir Charles, to cut
our way through the enemy to the store."

"No, no," said the Doctor; "I forbid that."

"Why?" said the Major angrily.

"Because it means half-a-dozen or a dozen more wounded men to crowd my
hospital."

"Hah!" ejaculated the Major. "And I can't spare one."

"Then look here," said the Doctor; "call for your volunteers--or for one
volunteer at a time. You see, with their cunning and subtlety they know
beforehand that we must be ready to do anything to get at the stores,
and consequently they keep the strictest watch, with spearmen ready to
let fly at any poor wretch who approaches either of the buildings."

"Yes, yes, we know that, Doctor," said the Resident peevishly.

"Then why don't you meet cunning with cunning?" replied the Doctor.
"Surely the Major can pick up some clever, sharp fellow who will crawl
in the darkness past the enemy's pickets and bring back something, if
it's only one sack of meal."

"That would be better than nothing, Doctor.--We'll try; eh, Major?"

"Of course; of course."

The little council of war was being held in the hottest part of the day,
when the attacking enemy seemed to have drawn off for a while amongst
the trees, and most of the beleaguered were grouped around in the shadow
of veranda and tree to listen to the discussion.

"Well," said the Resident, "I can't ask either of my native servants who
have been true to us to risk his life for us. We should never see them
again, for the enemy would be sure to make an extra effort to spear
them."

"Quite out of the question, Sir Charles," said the Doctor.--"Now, Major,
we must look to you again.--What's that, Mrs Smithers?"

"I was only going to say, sir, that my Joe is a big, strong fellow, and
he'll volunteer to try and get a sack of flour to-night."

"Eh? What's that?" cried the private.

"You heard what was said, Joe. What do you mean by shaking your head
like that?"

"Oh, I'm not the right man," he said. "I can carry my rifle, but I'm an
out-and-out bad one at carrying sacks."

"Nonsense, Joe," said his wife. "You can do anything that a British
soldier can."

"Nay, missus," said Smithers; "'tain't in my way at all. If it was my
officers wanted a stone jar of rack or a dozen of bottled ale, I might
manage 'em, but I'm nowhere with sacks."

"Never mind, then," said Mrs Smithers tartly; "I'll go myself."

"Nay, you won't," said Joe, shaking his h