_New Station-Master_ (_to_ Telegraph Clerk). Did you send my message
this morning, asking for a consignment of revolvers and arrow-proof
shields?
_Telegraph Clerk._ Yes, Sir. I can't make out why we haven't had an
answer. Something may have gone wrong with the wires. I sent one of
the porters to examine them. Ah, here he comes.
_A Porter arrives._
_Porter._ Just as I thought, Sir. Them blessed niggers have run short
of cash, and they've bin and took a mile of our best wire.
_Station-Master._ Taken a mile of wire? What the deuce do you mean?
_Porter._ Ah, Sir, you're new to this 'ere job. Fact is, they can all
buy theirselves a wife a-piece for two yards of our wire; and as there
was a raid last week, and all their wives was made off with, they've
just bin and took our telegraph wire to buy theirselves a new lot.
_Station-Master._ Dear me, how very provoking. I must make a report of
this occurrence immediately! But what does this crowd in the distance
mean?
_Porter._ Why bless my heart, it's a Wednesday, and I'd quite
forgotten all about it. They always attacks us of a Wednesday, but
they're a good half hour earlier than last week.
_Station-Master._ This is very strange, very strange indeed. I doubt
if the directors will approve of this. (_An arrow pierces him in the
calf of the leg._) Oh, I say, you know, this will never do. Close the
points--I mean shut the doors and barricade the windows. Let us at
least die as railway men should.
_Porter._ Lor' bless you, Sir, we shan't die. We've only got to pick
off two or three dozen of 'em, and the rest will skip in no time.
[_They retire within the palisade, and during the next half hour
fight for their lives._
_Telegraph Clerk_ (_plucking three arrows out of his left leg_).
Things are getting a bit hot. Hurrah! here's the 5.30 down express
with revolvers and ammunition. Now we shall settle 'em.
[_Arrival of the express. Retreat of the natives._
_Station-Master._ I don't think I quite like this life. I'm going to
off it.
[_Offs it accordingly._
* * * * *