Adventure stories; British -- Portugal -- Fiction; Lisbon (Portugal) -- Fiction; Love stories
Yet I had nothing to guide me. After the whistle of the launch we could
not hear a sound to indicate what was passing--the racket of the wind
made that impossible. Had I foreseen this, I saw how simply I could
have avoided this perplexity. A hole or two bored in the big gates or
a brick loosened in the partition wall between the two sheds would
have sufficed; and I cursed my stupidity in having lost sight of the
precaution.
“Can you hear anything?” I whispered to Burroughs, but both he and
Bryant were in the same dismayed perplexity as I.
“There seems a hitch somewhere,” he whispered back.
“Well, I shan’t wait any longer,” I decided a moment later, and I
opened the door with as little noise as possible.
It creaked horribly on the hinges, however, and jammed half-way, and I
caught my breath, fearing that the wrench I had to give it must surely
be heard by those in the adjoining shed. Then the wind came rushing
through with most disconcerting violence; and I only just succeeded in
preventing the door from slamming to with a tell-tale bang.
“A bold face on it, and we shall soon know,” I said as we started
through the drenching rain squall.
Burroughs went in front with Bryant close to his side, while I kept
behind as I did not wish the man who was on the look-out to see that
there were two replicas of the king’s august person.
The rain gave us invaluable help, for it rendered impossible any exact
recognition of us by the man on the watch.
We walked some ten yards along the narrow passage before he even saw
us. Then he waved his whip, jerked at his horses, and began to back
them past the end of the building to our left.
At that moment the strenuous excitement was relieved by a touch of
the ludicrous. In the preoccupation of the period of suspense I had
forgotten to stick on the false moustache without which any imposture
would have been instantly detected.
I called to the others to halt a moment, and fishing the thing out of
my pocket I dabbed it on, and had to hold it in its place by crinkling
my upper lip against my nose.
Burroughs and Bryant turned back; and I pulled my felt hat well down
over my face, held my head down as if to avoid the pelting rain and
hurried on alone.
On reaching the corner I purposely quickened my pace, and as I
turned, something was thrown over my head, a hand was clapped to my
mouth--outside the cloak fortunately, otherwise it might have been my
moustache only which would have been abducted--and I was lifted off my
feet and carried bodily away.
I made a pretence of struggling.
“No harm will happen to you unless you resist or try to cry out,” said
a voice sternly.
I felt I could safely desist, therefore, and let them carry me the
rest of the distance to the launch, where I was placed in the little
deckhouse with a couple of men to hold me down.
I made another feeble struggle then, and once more I was ordered with
threats to lie still.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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