While a few carried swords, all lugged the long rifles and
crooked daggers of the Tartars.
"Aunt Fanny," Beverly whispered, suddenly moving to the side of the
subdued servant, "where is my revolver?" It had come to her like a flash
that a subsequent emergency should not find her unprepared. Aunt Fanny's
jaw dropped, and her eyes were like white rings in a black screen.
"Good Lawd--wha--what fo' Miss Bev'ly--"
"Sh! Don't call me Miss Bev'ly. Now, just you pay 'tention to me and
I'll tell you something queer. Get my revolver right away, and don't let
those men see what you are doing." While Aunt Fanny's trembling fingers
went in search of the firearm, Beverly outlined the situation briefly
but explicitly. The old woman was not slow to understand. Her wits
sharpened by fear, she grasped Beverly's instructions with astonishing
avidity.
"Ve'y well, yo' highness," she said with fine reverence, "Ah'll p'ocuah
de bottle o' pepp'mint fo' yo' if yo' jes don' mine me pullin' an'
haulin' 'mongst dese boxes. Mebbe yo' all 'druther hab de gingeh?" With
this wonderful subterfuge as a shield she dug slyly into one of the bags
and pulled forth a revolver. Under ordinary circumstances she would have
been mortally afraid to touch it, but not so in this emergency. Beverly
shoved the weapon into the pocket of her gray traveling jacket.
"I feel much better now, Aunt Fanny," she said, and Aunt Fanny gave a
vast chuckle.
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