"A Boy's Adventures in China" (continued 6)

“To see that there was no sign of fire anywhere about. Weren’t you?”

“Yes,” said Stan. “How horribly the place smells!” Then, with his thoughts reverting to the late engagement: “I say, the enemy must have lost very heavily.”

“Awfully, sir,” said the man; and then meaningly, “Didn’t you see the crows?”

Stan’s brave companion was alluding to a long line of dusky birds that were following the dismal objects floating in direful procession down the river, and coming up from all directions to join their friends.

“Yes,” said the lad, with a shudder, “I saw them;” and at the same minute a voice came from behind, one of the party calling the attention of another to the same strange piece of animal instinct.

“I say,” he said, “look how the crows are coming up. How can they know when there is a fight?”

He called them crows—the common term—but he meant vultures, the scavengers of the Chinese villages and towns.

Blunt was sleeping heavily, or rather, he was lying back in a state of semi-stupor, the result of his wounds and the exertion of moving when in so weak a state. Wing was at his side, busily wafting the fan to and fro, but closing it quickly from time to time to make a blow at some troublesome, obtrusive fly, but never hitting once.

“Still asleep?” said Stan in a whisper.

“Yes, sleep velly fast,” replied the man. “Velly bad indeed. Hot in head now. Keep talkee. Say silly pidgin nonsense. Wanted get up and go ’way while all fight. Heah pilate shout. Wanted go see. Wing tly to ’top him. Say knock Wing down not get out o’ way.—You been killee all pilate?”

“All? Nonsense,” said Stan wearily. “But we’ve driven them away.”

“Dlive allee ’way? Yes,” said Wing, nodding his head a good deal. “Shoot, killee, flighten. Fly ’way like clows when shoot. But soon fo’get. Come back again like clows.”

“Come back like the crows?” said Stan.

“Yes. Shoot gun, all fly ’way. Fo’get soon; come back again to get good t’ings.”

“Do you mean you think the pirates will come back and attack?”

“Yes. Wing suah. Some day.”

“Do you think he is right?” said Stan, turning to his lieutenant.

“Yes, I’m afraid so,” was the reply. “Not for some days, of course; but they have been disappointed of the plunder, and knowing it is here, they’ll come again to try and get it and to pay us out for the number we have killed and wounded. There! don’t talk about it now. Let’s see about a meal being got ready.—You, Wing, I think you could leave Mr Blunt as he is. He can’t do better than sleep.”

“No do betteh,” said the Chinaman. “You say, go get dinneh leady? Wing glad. Do evelybody muchee good.”

“See about it, then,” said Stan, “while we go and say a few words to the coolies—eh? Don’t you think they ought to be praised for what they have done?”

“Yes,” was the lieutenant’s reply; “come and say a few words to them—not many—and tell them you are pleased with the way they fought. But tell them, too, that you’ll have a good supper got ready for them by-and-by. That’ll please them better than any amount of words.”

Stan led the way to where the Chinamen were chatting together about the fight and the way in which the enemy had been driven off; but they were eager enough to turn and listen to the lad’s words. Their round faces brightened upon hearing the announcement about the feast they were to have, and they indulged in a hoarse cheer when their visitors left to join their companions. Then, after one of the doors had been opened, the little party stepped out into the bloodstained alley between the building and the impromptu wall, which, besides being splashed with molten pitch and charred here and there, was horribly blotched in places by the gore of some wretched pirate who had been wounded or met his end.

“After what has been said, then,” said Stan sadly, “it will not be safe to pull down these chests?”

“Well, I don’t know yet. I think I’d leave them up till Mr Blunt has had a word or two to say to-morrow. I hope he’ll be well enough to take a little interest in matters by then. There’s no hurry. We’ll have them put straight here and there to repair damages, but they may very well wait afterwards, as there’s not likely to be any rain. But I say, Mr Lynn, what do you think about that bit of treachery? I was of opinion that it was Wing.”

“So was I at first, but he seems so calm and innocent.”

“Ah, yes! But you mustn’t think a Chinaman innocent because he looks so. He’s a mystery, you know. But still I have my doubts, and it worries me lest it should be one of the coolies. It would be so much worse then.”

“Why?” said Stan, looking wonderingly at his companion.

“Because they all belong to the same gang—are all members of one club—and if one of them proves to be a traitor, the bad sheep corrupts the whole flock.”

“What is to be done?” said Stan after a short, thoughtful pause.

“Nothing now, sir. We know there is a traitor amongst our men, but there is nothing to fear from that until the enemy come again. On further thought, however, I don’t think it was Wing.”

“I’m very glad,” said Stan, “for I believed in him, and I’m sure my father and uncle did. It must be one of the coolies, then. How are we to find out?”

“By going on quietly and not appearing to suspect. As I say, there is no immediate danger, and we have other things to think about. What do you propose doing first?”

“Asking your advice about Mr Blunt. I want to send for a doctor at once.”

“Ah, yes! But you ask my advice. Well, it is that you wait till the morning.”

“Wait till the morning? I want to send a boat with a messenger down the river to the port to bring back a doctor.”

“He could only bring a native one, and he has one now.”

“What! Wing? He is not a surgeon.”

“No; but he knows a great deal of that sort of thing. He has helped Mr Blunt to doctor the men often enough here, and I’d as soon trust him if I were wounded as I would an ordinary native surgeon. You see how well he has treated the governor already.”

“Roughly bandaged him up,” said Stan impatiently; “but he may bleed to death in the night.”

“Not likely, sir. Wing plugged his wounds, and I looked to see that the bleeding had stopped.”

“But he may be bleeding internally.”

“No; I’m sure of that.”

“How can you tell without a proper examination?”

“By the state he is in.”

“Then you are a hit of a doctor?” said Stan rather dubiously.

“More of a surgeon, sir. We’re obliged to be in these out-of-the-way places,” said his lieutenant, smiling.

“I know nothing, but I’m horribly anxious. How can you tell?”

“Simply enough, sir,” said the other. “Where is his wound?”

“Right through the shoulder.”

“Very well; where would he bleed if it was not outside?”

“Why, inside, of course,” said Stan.

“Certainly; but where?”

“As I said—inside.”

“Inside is rather a vague term, sir. Well, look here; the wounds are quite high up?”

“Yes, very.”

“Then if he bled anywhere, it would be into the cavity of the chest.”

“I don’t know anything about cavities, but of course it must be into the chest.”

“Exactly. Well, we know his heart isn’t touched.”

“How?” said Stan.

“Because if it had been he would be a dead man.”

“I see.”

“Then no big arteries or veins are wounded. If they had been he would have been suffocated by the blood long enough ago.”

“Would he?”

“Of course. His lungs would have been choked with blood, so we know that they are not injured.”

“I see,” said Stan; “but it’s very horrible, isn’t it?”

“I think not. Any one who learns things like this may find them very useful in an emergency. I do; and it gives a man confidence. I don’t think Mr Blunt’s wound is dangerous at all.”

“I do,” said Stan shortly. “See how delirious he seems to have been.”

“That’s only natural, sir. Fever sets in generally after a wound.”

“Oh, but you make too light of it,” cried Stan. “He is shot right through the shoulder.”

“So much the better.”

“What!” cried Stan angrily. “How can that be so much the better?”

“There is no fear of dangerous inflammation caused by the presence of the bullet, for we know that it isn’t in him, and Nature has set to work before now to begin healing him up.”

“Without a doctor?”

“To be sure. She’s a splendid surgeon, sir.”

“I wish I could feel as confident as you do,” said Stan.

“Well, learn all you can; you soon will.”

“Then you think we might wait till the morning?”

“Certainly. You and I will take it in turns to watch him through the night, and in the morning we shall see.”

“Very well,” said Stan; “perhaps you are right, but I feel very anxious about Mr Blunt.”

“So do I, sir; but I feel sure that we are doing right.”

Right or wrong, a little thought taught the lad that he was helpless. Night was at hand, and it would have been impossible to despatch a message till morning, for the presence of the pirates and the sound of the firing had put every owner of a boat to flight.

Hence it was, then, that the inevitable was cheerfully accepted.

That night darkness soon hid the towering sails of the retreating pirates; and in the morning watch, when Stan left Blunt’s side to go to the roof and look out in the grey dawn, glad to breathe the fresh, cool air after some hours in the heated office where he had shared the watch by Blunt’s rough couch, there was no sign of danger, scan the distant windings of the river how he would, while sunrise endorsed the fact that the enemy had sailed on all through the night for their rendezvous, scores of miles away.

Chapter Thirty Two.

“Shot Silk.”

It was the next evening when, after a whole day’s rest passed in a deep sleep quite free from fever—as Stan was made to notice by Wing the Chinaman, who drew his attention to the calmness of the sleep, the absence of all fever and restlessness, and, above all, the soft, fine perspiration which bedewed the patient’s skin—Blunt slowly opened his eyes in the office, now made light and airy by the removal of the barricades, and lay looking up at the ceiling.

As Wing pointed out the fact to Stan, the movement he made startled the sufferer, who looked at him sideways and said:

“What’s the matter? Where am I?”

Stan bent over him and replied.

“To be sure. Yes; I remember now. Ah, how weak I am! But tell me, Lynn; how are things going?”

Stan explained the position briefly.

“Good!” said Blunt. “Excellent! Thoroughly thrashed them?”

“For the present; but we all believe that they’ll come back.”

“No, no, Lynn,” replied Blunt faintly; “not for long enough, if they ever do. Tell me again; how many did they lose?”

“Ought you to talk now?”

“Well, no, I suppose not much; but I’m all right, only very weak. I’m not going to die, my lad. There! I will not talk much. Go on telling me. I must hear.”

Stan told him, but made no allusion to the bit of treachery; and when he had ended the manager smiled his approval.

“Just what I expected,” he said. “Brave lads, all of them.”

Hearing the talking, Stan’s lieutenant in the defence came softly in, but not so quietly as to be unheard by the wounded man, who raised his hand on the uninjured side.

“Ah, Lawrence!” he said. “I’ve heard all about it. Bravely done, all of you. I’m better, you see. All that feverish muddle I felt in the head is gone.”

“That’s right, sir. I came in to see how you were.”

“Couldn’t be going on better.”

“But what about sending down to Nang Ti for a native doctor?”

“What for?”

“To attend you, sir.”

“Pooh! Absurd! Wing can do anything that a native doctor would suggest. He knows as much as I do, and I know by my symptoms that I’m going on all right.”

“But we thought that as soon as you came to it might be better to send for help.”

“No need, my man. I must be kept a bit low and quiet, not worried nor allowed to get up too soon, and I shall soon be as well as ever. Now tell me quietly, what have you done about our breastworks and the wall?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“What! not got the boxes and bales under cover again?”

“We thought it better to leave things as they were in case the enemy returned.”

“Bah! They will not come. But look here; the ammunition must be getting very low.”

“Very, sir,” said Lawrence, with a meaning look at Stan.

“To be sure.—Here, Lynn, first thing to-morrow morning write a despatch to your father, telling him of the attack and asking for a fresh supply of cartridges. It must be sent off by Wing in the first boat you can get hold of. At Nang Ti he will soon find a steamer bound for Hai-Hai—You, Lawrence, start the first thing in the morning all hands at work to restore everything that is not damaged.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That will do. I must not talk any more. Good-night.”

To Stan’s surprise, the patient had no sooner closed his eyes than he seemed to be asleep; and it was late morning, just as Stan’s long letter was finished, and Wing, who declared himself well enough, came in to announce that he had picked up a boat from among those which had come stealing back, when Blunt opened his eyes again.

Busy days followed, with confidence returning as no further news was heard of the pirates, while the way in which the people of the nearest villages came back to their homes and work in the fields seemed to act as an endorsement of the idea that the terrible raid was over, and the likelihood of there being another attack seemed to be past.

The men worked hard; the traces of the fiery trial disappeared from the great storehouse, save that the charring and the pitch-stains refused to be scraped out; barricades disappeared, and partitions and stacks of chests and bales rose again in their old places; the carpenters cut out damaged wood, and with the exception of new-looking patches the place assumed its former aspect, while the business in the office and counting-house went on again as if the whole ugly blood-shedding had been only a feverish dream.

Wing had not yet returned, but one afternoon Stan was busy in the office talking to Blunt about a boatload of tea which had come down from the interior—for the manager had progressed so rapidly that he was well on the high-road to complete recovery. Naturally he was a good deal pulled down, hollow of cheek and sunken of eye, and compelled to assist his steps by means of a stout bamboo cane, while the arm nearest to the injury was supported by a silken scarf used as a sling. But he was bright and cheerful, and busy in the office some hours every day, working, as he called it, vicariously, Stan being his deputy, who superintended a great deal of the correspondence that went on.

“No news yet of Wing,” he was saying. “Seems a very long time, Lynn.”

“Oh no; it’s a long way, and there might be some delay over getting the supplies you want.”

“S’pose so,” said Blunt abruptly. “Good job our piratical friends don’t know of it or they’d come down at once. Hullo! What’s that?”

Lawrence rose and went to the window to see what was the meaning of a loud gabble of voices coming from the wharf.

“It’s a boat coming in,” he said.

“Oh, Wing at last!” said Blunt. “Well, I’m very glad. A good supply of ammunition is just the tonic that will pull me round.”

“It may be, sir, but I hardly think so,” replied Lawrence. “It’s the Chee-ho come back.”

“With that miserable sneak Mao. Cowardly hound to slip off as he did. Here, I’ll have a talk with him when he comes ashore. No more boatloads for him, he’ll find.—What say, Lynn? I’m weak yet—not get in a passion?”

“It wouldn’t be wise,” whispered Stan.

“Well, perhaps not; but the thought of that fat, smooth, comfortable-looking poodle coming in here smiling and rubbing his hands puts me in a perspiration.”

“Perhaps he’ll be ashamed to show himself.”

“What!” cried Blunt. “Mao ashamed? You don’t know him. You see if he doesn’t come cringing in, just as if nothing had happened, to ask if there is a load ready for him to take down to the port.—What do you say, Lawrence?”

“The same as you do, sir.”

Half-an-hour later the matter discussed was put to the proof, for there was the soft, shuffling sound of a Chinaman’s boots in the passage, and the tindal of the boat in which Stan had arrived with Wing gave a gentle tap, pushed the door, and entered, smiling profusely and bowing to Blunt and Stan, before taking up his post half-way to the desks, hat in hand, waiting to be addressed.

Blunt heard him, but paid no heed for a minute or so; then looking up sternly, he saluted the man with a deep-toned—

“Well, sir, what do you want?”

“Come see when load leady fo’ Chee-ho boat.”

“How dare you come and ask after deserting us as you did? Why, we might have been all massacred, you cowardly scoundrel, for all you’d have done to save us. What have you got to say for yourself?”

“Me t’ink Chee-ho b’long me. If stop, pilate man flow ’tink-pot. Set fi’ and cuttee Mao float,” said the man deprecatingly.

“And so you set sail and got out of the way?”

“Yes. Velly fast. Chee-ho nicee big boat b’long me. Takee ca’e. Hold plenty tea-box, plenty silk. Bluntee want—”

“Look here, you scoundrel,” cried the manager angrily; “I am Mr Blunt, your employer, and if you call me Bluntee again I’ll throw this ruler at you.”

As he spoke the manager caught his big ruler from the desk and made so fierce an “offer” with it that the Chinese boat-captain dropped upon his knees and bowed his head almost to the floor. “Get up!” shouted the manager. “No flow t’ick stick?” whined the man. “I will if you don’t get up this moment. Stand up like a man.”

“Oh deah!” said the shivering Chinaman, getting up slowly and painfully, and displaying a couple of great tears running down his fat cheeks. “Misteh Blunt wantee Mao stop havee float cut?”

“No, but to stay and help us, sir. How did you know but what we might want to escape in your boat down to Nang Ti?”

“Mao quite suah not do so. Know Misteh Blunt big man. Velly angly. Can’tee flighten um and makee lun away. Mao know he stop fightee.”

“And so you sailed away and left us in the lurch.”

“Yes. Pilate man velly dleadful. Killee evelybody and cut Mao head off. Cut all men and flow um ove’boa’d.”

“And so you ran away—eh?”

“Yes. Velly much aflaid. Mao tly save boatee fo’ Misteh Blunt. Boat b’long Mao.”

“Ah, well! you saved it.”

“Yes. Tookee long way. Sail up cleek. Hide till Mao quitee suah pilate junk allee gone ’way. Then come again. You got plenty bale plenty tea-box fo’ Mao take down livah—eh?”

“Be off!” said Blunt shortly. “I’ll think about it.”

“Yes, Misteh Blunt t’ink gleat deal. See Mao ’blige lun away. Chee-ho boat b’long Mao. No do let pilate buln, sink. B’long Mao—b’long Misteh Blunt—b’long evelybody.”

“Be off!” shouted Blunt; and the man went away, nodding and smiling, to join his crew upon the wharf.

“Shall you employ him any more?” said Stan as the door closed and the captain’s blue frock was seen to balloon out in the pleasant breeze as he marched complacently along the river-front.

“Oh yes,” replied Blunt. “He’s a very honest fellow, and can’t help being a thorough coward. Suppose I dismiss him, I shall have to engage another, who would possibly turn out dishonest and a greater humbug than this one.”

“But he seems to be utterly without courage.”

“Pooh! We all are at first. I was horribly frightened when we were attacked.”

“It didn’t seem like it,” said Stan, smiling.

“Oh no, of course not. I wasn’t going to let any one see what a stew I was in. That’s the result of education and one’s love of keeping up appearances. You owned to being frightened too—at first.”

“I was,” said Stan frankly. “Enough to make one.”

“Of course it was. But, you see, we’re Britons, and when a job of this sort comes to a head, why, we say, ‘Well, it’s no use to make any bones about it; the thing has to be done;’ and we do it as well as we can. And, as you see, the job was done.”

“Only half-done,” said Stan, with a sigh.

“What! I think it was splendidly well done. What do you mean by your ‘half-done’?”

“Why, you said the enemy would come back again.”

“Ye-es; so I did; but I don’t feel so sure now.”

“How is that?” asked Stan, impressed by his companion’s manner.

“Well, you see, one often judges how the weather is going to be by the behaviour of the animals about one. Birds, cattle, reptiles, insects, fish, if one studies them, give one hints of what sort of a season one is going to have. Chinese, too, are not slow in that way. You see Mao has come back.”

“Yes; but what has that to do with it?”

“A good deal. He has a sort of instinctive as well as experienced knowledge that the trouble is at an end, or else he wouldn’t have shown his nose here now. I shouldn’t wonder if he had a hint that the enemy were coming, some time before they arrived.”

“But if he had he would have warned you.”

“So he did, in a quiet sort of way, but I didn’t believe him. Yes, I begin to think that you gave the enemy such an awful thrashing—”

“I?” cried Stan. “Why, I only carried out your orders.”

“And well, too, my lad; and as I was about to say when you interrupted me so rudely, you gave them such an awful thrashing that in the future they will look out for some nut to crack that has a thinner shell and leave us most carefully alone. Mao has come back, and that means the storm is well over.”

“But you’ll be well prepared in case they do come again?”

“Trust me, my lad. You and I will begin to play chess of an evening in future.”

“Have you a set of chess-men?”

“No; nor do I want them. We’ll make the hong our chess-board, and play the game of defiance with our brains.”

“I have some idea of what you mean,” said Stan, laughing, “but it is not quite clear.”

“I mean, we’ll set to and scheme how to meet our friends if they do come again. You see, one is sure to have warning. They can’t come down the river without; and I can’t help thinking that you and I ought to be able to contrive some kind of floating dodge which we could let down amongst the junks, and which would blow them up or set fire to them.”

“Yes; I see,” cried Stan eagerly. “Or why not try something with a big kite that we could drop down to explode on their decks. But of course I don’t know how.”

“There you are!” cried Blunt, clapping him on the back. “Bravo! The very thing!”

“Oh no,” said Stan quickly. “That was just the ghost of an idea.”

“True; but we’ll set to and make it something solid. The people here have wonderful kites, and I’ll be bound to say that you and I could contrive something chemical that we could send up and manage with a string till it was just over them, and then drop it where it would explode, so that it would scare them off even if it did not set fire to their junks. But wait a bit. We’ll see.”

“Yes; if you take it like that, I think we might contrive something. I say, why not some kind of torpedo that we could sink just off the wharf, connect it here with a wire, and have an electric battery to fire the charge? Why, if I had had such a thing here when the junks were all together off the place, I could have—”

“Blown them to smithereens, my lad,” cried Blunt. “Bravo! And we’ll have a little gun, too, that we can work easily—one that will send explosive shells. There! that will do. I’m going to fill up an order for one battery of cells, thirteen as twelve torpedoes, so many yards of insulated wire, and—Here, I say, we ought out of common humanity to send word up the river to all pirates to make their wills before they come for their next attack.”

“Or put up a big hoarding with a notice written in Chinese for all who come up and down the river to read.”

“What about?”

“New patent steel traps and spring-guns are set in these grounds,” said Stan, laughing.

“All right, my lad. Joke away; but I’m on my mettle, and if we can’t contrive something better than walls and barricades of tea-chests and silk it’s very strange.”

“Well, we ought to, certainly.”

“And we will. Just think of what a lot of good stuff has been made absolutely worthless. There is, I should say, a couple or three hundred pounds’ worth of tea and silk—more perhaps—perfectly unsaleable.”

“Couldn’t you send it to market under another name?” said Stan, laughing.

“Name? What name?” growled Blunt contemptuously. “You can’t sell tea that has been exposed to fire. What would you call it—coffee?”

“No; gunpowder tea,” cried Stan merrily.

“One to you,” said Blunt, with a grim laugh. “But what about your silk?”

“Oh, that’s easy!” said Stan. “Call that shot silk.”

“Good gracious!” cried Blunt, with mock solemnity. “The poor fellow is going wrong. Overstrain, I suppose, from the excitement of the fight. There! try and be calm. It’s a bad sign when a fellow begins to make feeble jokes. Don’t try again, Lynn. Keep on with some nice, light, playful idea or two, such as the flying kites and contriving busters for the Chinese junks. Those would be gentle, innocent pursuits. But seriously, though, the more I think of what you say the more I am taken by it. You see, it would be quite new and startling for the enemy. Those junks are as fragile as can be, and a very little would send them to the bottom. Here, I say, I think I have it. Isn’t there a chemical that we could squirt over them from an engine of some kind?”

“What for?”

“To burn them. I once saw a chemical experiment in which such stuff was thrown on to some light wood, and it burst into flame at once. That’s the stuff we want. If we can set one junk on fire, it will set more in the same condition. What do you say to that?”

“Splendid, if it could be done.”

“Could be done? It must be done, and we’re going to do it. Oh, there are more ways of killing a cat than hanging it. Let the pigtails come. They shall find that I’m not going to have any more of our chests and bales spoiled. I think—”

“So do I,” said Stan firmly—“that you’ve been talking twice as much as you ought to do; so now have a rest.”

“Well, I am a bit husky,” said Blunt, “but not like the same man to-day. Humph! Perhaps you are right.”

Chapter Thirty Three.

“Wing’s A—Chinaman.”

Several anxious days were passed, during which a sharp lookout was kept for the return of Wing with the ammunition; but still it did not come, and, as Blunt reasonably said, they could not settle down comfortably to invention and forms of defence by schemes until they could feel prepared temporarily for an emergency.

“Once we have two or three cases of cartridges in hand we’ll go to work at our plans. But this waiting takes it out of a man.”

“It is giving you time to get a little stronger,” replied Stan.

“Oh, bother that! I could grow stronger fast enough if my mind were quite at rest I’m beginning to think that poor old Wing has come to grief, and if he doesn’t reach here by to-morrow night I shall make up a little cargo and send Mao with an urgent despatch to the principals. It’s growing serious. Here, come and let us plan what to send.”

“You had better rest patiently,” said Stan. “Who’s to rest patiently with not a dozen rifle-cartridges on the premises?”

“You,” said Stan, smiling.

“What! Do you know the enemy may even now be on their way to make a fresh attack?”

“No, they mayn’t,” replied Stan.

“What! How do you know?”

“By seeing your weather-glass point to fine weather.”

“My weather-glass?”

“Yes—old Mao. He seems to be as satisfied as possible, sitting smoking his opium-pipe and watching his men caulk and varnish the Chee-ho.”

“Well, he does look pretty well content; but it’s weary work waiting, and I feel convinced that the message has never reached the principals.”

“I can see a proof,” cried Stan excitedly, “that you are only looking on the black side of things.”

“What do you mean?” said Blunt, staring at the way in which the lad had sprung to his feet to run to the open window looking down the river.

“Here’s the boat in sight, sir,” cried Lawrence, hurriedly opening the door.

“What! our boat?” cried Blunt excitedly.

“Yes, sir, with Wing showing his signal. Try the glass, sir.”

Blunt snatched the glass offered to him, but before he could get to the window and focus it with his trembling hands, Stan had taken down his own binocular and was leaning out, bringing the matting-sailed boat close into the room, as it were.

“Yes,” he cried, “there’s Wing holding up a little flag so that it blows straight out.”

“A pocket-handkerchief Union-jack?” cried Blunt.

“Yes, that’s it; and there’s some one else on board beside the boatmen. Why—yes—no—yes—no.—Oh, do stand still, whoever you are! I can’t see if you bob about so.—Yes, it is. Look, Mr Blunt—look! Here’s Uncle Jeff come so as to see everything for himself.”

“Right, Lynn, right,” cried the manager; “so it is. Three cheers for him. We’ll give them when he’s close up. Well, hurrah for one thing! We’re not going to show him the ashes of his big warehouse along with our burnt bodies.”

“Ugh!” cried Stan. “What a gruesome idea! Let’s get out and have the flag hoisted on the pole.”

“Ah! and we’ll have every one out too, so as to give him a warm welcome. But are you quite sure it is your uncle?”

“Certain,” cried Stan proudly. “You never saw anybody but Uncle Jeff standing up in that free-and-easy way, just as if he didn’t care a snap of the fingers for the whole world.”

“Yes, that’s Mr Jeffrey,” said Blunt, lowering his glass and drawing in a deep breath; “the very sight of him seems to do a man a power of good. Out with you, Lynn, and send Lawrence to hail the boys. We’ll all turn out and man the edge of the wharf. I want your uncle to see that I haven’t lost a man.”

A few minutes later clerks, warehousemen, and coolies were all standing at the edge of the wharf, with the flag fluttering and straining from the halyards, where it had been run up to the head of the signal-pole; while as soon as the boat came within hailing distance Lawrence acted as fugleman and headed three good, hearty, welcoming cheers. These, in spite of the admixture of Chinese squeak from the throats of the coolies—a squeak which ended with a hoarse croak—sounded so pleasant to Uncle Jeff’s anxious ears that he whisked off his sun-helmet, tossed it on high, and gave forth a thoroughly deep, hearty British hurrah, while, not to be outdone, Wing, who stood behind, bared his pig-tailed head to wave his lacquered, shining black hat, and echoed the shout with his alto pipe.

In another minute the sail was being lowered, and the next, as the boat glided up against the wharf, Stan sprang on board, to have his hands grasped by his big, manly relative.

“Why, Stan, boy,” he cried, “we never thought we were going to send you out of the Hai-Hai frying-pan into the Nang Ti fire. But you were not burnt?”

He held the lad back at arm’s-length and uttered a loud puff like a whale getting rid of its confined breath.

“No, I can see you were not. Eyes bright, colour fresh, and hearty as can be. Hah! that’s a comfort. We shouldn’t have sent you if we had known.—Here, Blunt,” he continued, “do you call this management, bringing down all the ruffians of the river to attack the place! Why, hang it, man! you do look as if you have had more than your share of trouble. You’ve lost pounds since I saw you last. Coming round again, though, I can see.”

“Yes; there’s nothing much wrong now,” was the reply as the pair shook hands heartily. “The wound’s healing up nicely, thanks to Wing here.—Well, Wing, how are you?”

“Badly,” was the reply. “Been fletting.”

“Fretting? What about?”

“Misteh Blunt and young Lynn. S’posee pilate come back and Wing not bling ca’tlidge.”

“But you’ve brought them now?” said Blunt eagerly.

“Yes, plenty big box full. Bling Misteh Jeffley too. All leady fightee when pilate come.”

“And a very welcome recruit if needed,” said Blunt, smiling. “But we don’t want any more of that work—at any rate till I get strong again.—You’ve heard, Mr Lynn, how I caved in and left your nephew to fight the battle?”

“Oh yes. I’ve heard all about it from Wing,” said Uncle Jeff dryly. “I gave him a lesson in the use of the revolver before he left home, but I didn’t know he was going to turn out such an awful fire-eater as he has.”

“Don’t you think you had better come in and have something to eat, uncle?” said Stan quietly. “It will do you more good than making fun of me.”

“Fun, Stan, my lad? Oh! I don’t call this fun. Wing says you’ve become quite a general.”

“Wing’s a—Chinaman,” said Stan, with a laugh full of annoyance, which made the two men exchange glances—looks which the lad interpreted to mean, “Hadn’t we better leave off?”

And in this spirit Uncle Jeff clapped his hand upon the boy’s shoulder and said heartily:

“Take me round and show me the damage done by the enemy, my boy.”

“There’s very little to see, uncle, but the chipped stone and the leaden bullets and pieces of iron the enemy poured in.”

“The bullets—eh? What! in the stone?”

“No, no, uncle,” cried the lad. “Stuck in the door-posts and woodwork.”

“What about the windows where the stink-pots came flying in as if all the stars in the sky had broken loose?”

“Oh, they must have been flying across the office, uncle, when Wing was nursing Mr Blunt. We didn’t see those upstairs.”

“But a great many did come in?”

“Yes, uncle, and burned great patches in the floor.”

“Come, that’s something; you must take me up and show me.”

“I can’t show you much, uncle,” was the reply, “for the bales have been stacked in their places again.”

“Oh, come! this is disappointing,” cried Uncle Jeff. “No ruins; no wounds but Mr Blunt’s; no burnt-out warehouses! Why, after such a scare I expected to find the whole place crippled. Where’s Wing?”

“Oh, I must have a word here,” said Blunt. “I dare say Master Wing painted the affair up pretty well, but it was as bad as it could be.”

“Why, I thought you were bowled out at the first ball,” said Uncle Jeff sharply.

“So I was; but the other players had their innings, and told me all about it afterwards. Old Lawrence says it was awful.”

“So it was, uncle,” cried Stan; “nothing could have been worse.”

“Well, all I can say is,” said Uncle Jeff some time later, “that you have cleared away wonderfully. But there’s one thing I don’t like. It sticks in my memory very tightly, and it seems to me that it is the one weak spot in our armour if we are again attacked.”

“And what’s that, uncle?” asked Stan, for there was a pause.

“The traitor in the camp, my lad. You can’t go on like this. What is the use of making all kinds of preparations when there is an enemy in the midst who is ready to spoil all and, as it were, sell you to the enemy?”

“You mean about the water poured over the ammunition?” said Blunt, speaking rather excitedly.

“Yes—of course. Now whom do you suspect?”

“At first I thought Wing might be the guilty party.”

“Wing!” cried Uncle Jeff, starting. “Ah, to be sure!” he continued after but a few moments’ thought. “He was my informant, and very eager to tell me all about it. Tried hard, I remember now, to make me understand it must have been some one at the hong. Here, Stan, it’s a long time since I was at school; you’ve only just come away. What’s that French proverb about the man who tries to clear himself making matters worse?”

“He who excuses himself accuses himself,” said Stan promptly.

“Humph! Yes. But it sounds better in French. Here, I don’t like to think old Wing guilty; he has been such a true and faithful servant to the ‘foreign devils,’ as they call us. Besides, he is so much one of us, and has been so well paid and treated. You’ve had no quarrel with him, Blunt?”

“Not the slightest. Always the best of friends. Of course, you know my way—short, sharp, and decisive.”

“Yes; you always were a bit of a bully, Blunt.”

“But I’m always just, sir.”

“Perfectly; and I believe the people like you at bottom, even if you have a rough side to your tongue.”

“Oh yes, uncle,” put in Stan eagerly, to be rewarded by a grateful glance. “I’m sure there isn’t a man here who wouldn’t fight to the death for Mr Blunt.”

“I wouldn’t go so far as that, Lynn,” said Blunt, with the hot blood colouring his pallid, sunken cheeks.

“But they’ve proved it,” cried Stan energetically.

“I’m thinking it was more for you, Lynn,” said Blunt quietly.

“Well, let that rest,” cried Uncle Jeff; “and let’s go on with the trial of Master Wing. You have been good friends with him, Blunt?”

“Excellent.”

“No sudden quarrel?”

“Oh no.”

“Given him no cause of offence? These Asiatics are rather fond of nursing up a bit of revenge.”

“Oh no,” repeated Blunt.

“What about the coolies, then? Any knocking down or punishing any of them?”

“Nothing of the kind, sir. I am quite at a loss to think of anything that could have prompted a Chinaman here to retaliate.—You can think of nothing, can you, Lynn, in the short time you have been here?”

Lynn remained silent and looked very conscious, while Uncle Jeff watched him sideways.

“Hah!” he said at last. “Dumb. Now, Stan, lad, what are you thinking of? Out with it.”

The lad tried to clear his throat, but in vain, for his voice sounded husky as he said:

“I was thinking about Wing being on the watch, uncle—about my shooting at him, Mr Blunt, and his tumble.”

“Puss! puss! puss! puss! puss!” said Uncle Jeff softly, and he looked towards the door.

It was the turn of Stan and the manager to stare at him now, and they looked as if they fancied he was going out of his mind.

But he looked back at them with a light that was certainly not that of insanity dancing in his clear, keen eyes, and there was the faint dawning of a smile upon his lips as he saw their puzzled looks.

“What are you staring at, Stan?” he said at last.

“I—I couldn’t make out what you meant, uncle. Do you want the cat? She’s generally in the warehouse, watching for the rats that come out of the river-bank.”

“Oh no; I wasn’t alluding to that one, but to the other.”

“There is no other cat on the premises, sir,” said Blunt, staring in turn.

“Oh yes, there is. I mean the metaphorical cat. She’s out of the bag now, and I was calling her back. Why, hang it, man! there’s the cause of the plot. Tell us all about it.”

The incident was repeated to the end.

“A great pity,” said Uncle Jeff gravely.

“Yes, sir, it was,” said Blunt. “I acted on the impulse of the moment, and of course I alone was to blame, for in my sharp, overbearing manner I insisted upon your nephew firing. Of course, I only meant, in my annoyance at his dozing off at such a time, to give him a startler. But I’ve felt sorry ever since.”

“I am sorry too,” said Uncle Jeff.

“And I too, uncle.”

“You are, I know, Stan. Well, it’s of no use to cry over spilt milk. The thing’s done and can’t be undone. But there’s the motive, and now the poor weak fellow has gratified his revengeful bit of spite let us hope he is satisfied and that all will go smoothly. Still, it is a painful thought that we have had a traitor in the camp.”

“I don’t care,” said Stan firmly.

“It is of no use to care, my lad; but if we have the enemy back I should certainly lock Master Wing where he could do no mischief.”

“You misunderstand me, uncle,” said Stan. “I didn’t finish what I meant to say.”

“Let’s have it, then, boy.”

“I meant to say, I don’t care; I don’t believe Wing would do such a thing.”

“Neither do I,” said Blunt warmly. “The poor fellow is too true. He was quite affectionate to me in attending to my wounds, and nothing could have been better than the plucky way in which he ran all risks through the fight, and afterwards undertook the commission to go and fetch the cartridges. No; I say Wing was not the guilty party.”

“Well,” said Uncle Jeff, “I want to be with you, for I like old Wing. There’s a something about him that puts me in mind of a faithful dog. We’ll agree that it was not he, and that drives us to suspect the coolies.”

“Yes,” said Blunt; “and I don’t like suspecting them, for a better set of fellows never lived.”

“There couldn’t be,” said Stan. “They almost worship Mr Blunt, uncle.”

“Hah!” said the latter. “It’s a puzzle, then, and I can’t help thinking that the best way will be to drop the matter and be watchful. If we begin investigating we may not find out the guilty, but we’re bound to upset the innocent by our suspicions. I say, Blunt, I wouldn’t wake up sleeping Chinese again with the rifle.”

“You may depend upon it I shall not, sir,” said Blunt frankly. “And now, if I may change the subject, I want to be put out of my misery.”

“With a rifle, Blunt?” said Uncle Jeff dryly.

“No, no; not in that way, though I do want it done with cartridges. I shall be in misery till we get those ashore and in the magazine.”

“Quite right; we’ll have them seen to at once. We must be ready if the enemy do come.”

“I say, uncle,” cried Stan merrily, “how you keep on weing! Any one would think you meant to stop.”

“I do mean to stop, my boy,” said Uncle Jeff sharply.—“No, no, no, no, Blunt; don’t take it like that,” he continued as he saw the change in the manager’s countenance. “I have not come to supersede you, only as a humble recruit, ready if wanted, which I fervently hope I shall not be. I should have brought half-a-dozen good fighting-men with me, only there are none in stock at Hai-Hai. It is getting to be every man for himself, too, and we shall be very unsettled until our Government makes a move and puts a few men-of-war on the station for the protection of the mercantile folk. My brother and several more are bestirring themselves, however, and I hope something will be done before long.”

“But you will take the lead, sir, while you stay, of course,” said Blunt rather coldly. “As you see, I am weak.”

“I shall do nothing of the kind, Blunt. My brother and I are only too well satisfied with your management. I have come here to help to take care of Nephew Stanley, and when the care is not necessary I am going to have a rest, fishing, botanising, and shooting—in other words, to have a spell of idleness, for I don’t think you will be attacked again after the taste you have given the miscreants of our quality here at the hong. Now then, Blunt,” he added, “are you satisfied?”

The manager hesitated and still looked doubtful, but the look that accompanied Uncle Jeff’s outstretched hand was sufficient, and he brightened up at once.

“Yes, sir,” he said warmly—“quite.”

Chapter Thirty Four.

“Wait till the Wretches come.”

The landing and stowing away of the cases of ammunition did not last long, for every one joined in it, four men without orders taking charge of a box that one could have carried with ease. In fact, they looked more like a party of schoolboys bringing boxes of fireworks for a fête than stern, energetic men fighting for the privilege of either carrying or simply watching the little chests, the possession of which turned them from helpless, unprotected beings, at the mercy of the next piratical crew that came down the river, to strong, vigorous folk ready for a fleet of junks and eager to fight to any desperate end.

The last case was placed in the little magazine, the trap-door shut down and locked, and then there was a burst of cheering which sounded stifled in the great stack-filled store.

“Why, I thought at one time,” said Uncle Jeff merrily when the whole party had filed out and the speaker was seated in Blunt’s private room, “that they were all going to break out in a triumphal war-dance.”

Stan coloured and laughed.

“Well, uncle,” he said, “the men were so excited that I don’t see that I, a boy, need mind owning how I felt. It was something like what one used to experience when one had a present years and years ago.”

“What!—ready to jump for joy, Stan?”

“Yes, uncle.”

“I know the feeling,” said Uncle Jeff, chuckling. “I remember just as well as if it was yesterday. Ready to jump for joy; just, too, when I was so weak from some fever that if I had been out of bed my legs wouldn’t have borne me, let alone jumped. I remember it was fine summer weather, and my father had come down from London and brought me a new fishing-rod—a perfect marvel to my young eyes—reddish-yellow bamboo, with brass ferrules, and having one joint fitting beautifully into the other so as to form a walking-stick; and in addition, just as he had brought them and had them bundled up together in a parcel, there was quite a heap of treasures tangled up together on the big sheet of paper spread out upon the white counterpane, while I sat up with two pillows to support my weak back. Oh, it was grand!

“Ha, ha, ha!” chuckled the great stalwart fellow, with his eyes lighting up. “Didn’t I have the window opened so that I could pull joint out from joint and put them together, making the rod grow till I sat holding it out through the drawn-up sash. All the time I was seeing in imagination the great pond sheltered by the willows where the water-lilies grew and the carp and tench sailed about underneath, every now and then lifting a broad dark-green leaf or thrusting a stem aside, with the glistening beetles gliding about on the surface as if they were playing at engine-turning and describing beautiful geometric figures as the big dragon-flies rustled their gauzy wings and darted here and there in chase of flies.

“Then, too, I remember that I cried out against the window being shut, because three parts of my rod stood out in the open while I was busy examining a hank of Indian twist, beautiful steel-blue hooks of all sizes, from tiny ones on gut to big, quaintly shaped large ones, loose, but with eyes for attachment to the whipcord-like eel-line.”

Uncle Jeff stopped short and turned with a droll look at his nephew.

“Here, Stan,” he said, “you had better stop me or I shall go on with my rigmarole about that line with the blue-and-white cork float and the other with a quill, besides the one with the sharp-pointed porcupine which stuck through the bedclothes into my leg. Then there was the box of split shot with the lid which stuck, and when I got it off the contents jumped out, to go everywhere, over the bed, into it, under it, rattling between the jug and basin, and had to be hunted out. Then there was that lovely landing-net that was so rarely required for a big fish, but did splendidly to catch butterflies. And the fishing-creel, too, and—Here, Blunt, my dear fellow, where’s your box of Manilla cigars?—Stan, get me a light. I must put something in my mouth or I shall begin to tell you both about that little pike that I didn’t catch and that big carp that I did—I mean the one that seemed to my boyish eyes as if he wore a suit of armour made of young half-sovereigns overlapping one another from tail to head. Ah, Stan!” cried Uncle Jeff, “you’re a lucky young dog to be a boy, though you don’t know it, and never will till you grow up to be a man.”

“Why, uncle,” cried Stan, “haven’t I just had to play at being a man and handle the rifle?”

“I’m sorry to say yes, my lad, and I’d a great deal rather have heard that you had spent your time wandering on the banks of this splendid river, catching nothing, perhaps, but filling your young mind with things to remember when you grow old. Ah! life’s a very lovely thing if human beings would not spoil it as they do.”

Stan smiled at his uncle’s words, but he did not see life in the same light after his experiences at Hai-Hai and at the hong; though he was quite ready to agree as to the way in which men spoil the world, and he did say this, very tersely, later on:

“Especially Chinese pirates, uncle.”

“Just so, my boy. But really it is all so beautiful here,” said Uncle Jeff, “that now I have been refreshed and feel rested, it is more than ever hard to believe what a desperate fight you have had. I wish I had been here.”

“So do I, uncle,” said Stan merrily; but he turned serious the next moment. “No, I do not, uncle. It was very horrible, and you might have been shot.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Stan. You and your men escaped pretty well. However, matters were best as they were—eh, Blunt?”

“Certainly,” said the manager. “The defence could not have been in better hands.”

“Oh, don’t!” cried Stan, speaking like a pettish girl. “Now you are both sneering at me.”

This was of course denied, but the lad was only half-convinced, and too glad to hear the conversation take a different turn.

“We must achieve some better means of defence, Blunt,” said Uncle Jeff. “You ought to have a good little piece of artillery here—something that would tell well on a junk—sink her if it was necessary.”

“That’s what we were planning, uncle,” cried Stan; “only we had some rather peculiar notions.”

The natural result of this remark was that the lad had to explain and give a full account of his ideas, which was received with a grunt.

“There’s a lot in it that sounds well, Stan,” said Uncle Jeff after listening for some time in silence, “but too much of the toy-shop and Fifth of November about the rest. That kite-flying would never do.”

“Why, it would be so simple, uncle!”

“Very simple indeed, my boy—Simple Simony. Why, Stan, how do you think you are going to fly kites with the enemy in front?”

“But they’re only to raise burning things like the pirates’ stink-pots.”

“I should have a deal more faith in something of that sort. But how would you guide your kite with a fiery tail over the junk you meant to destroy?”

“By means of the string. I could easily manage one, by pulling in and letting out till it was just over a junk; and then I should pull the second string, for of course there would be two; and then I should let one go, and down would fall the fiery shell right upon the junk’s deck.”

“If it didn’t go down splash into the river—eh?”

“Oh, I should manage it better than that,” said the lad confidently.

“So I suppose,” said Uncle Jeff sarcastically; “and of course the wind would be setting in the right direction—that is to say, straight from you and over the enemy’s junks.”

“Of course, uncle,” said Stan confidently.

“Of course! Why, you too sanguine young enthusiast, the chances would be five-and-twenty to one that the wind would not be right on the day the enemy came. Won’t do, Stan. Try again.”

“Oh, I can’t if you go on like that, uncle,” said the lad in an aggrieved tone. “You’re not half such a good listener as Mr Blunt. He thinks a good deal of my ideas.”

“Then it was quite time I came. He’d spoil you. I will not, you may depend. Now then, let’s have a better idea than that.”

“Well, uncle,” said the boy rather grumpily, “I did think something of having a boat always moored among the reeds—one filled with dangerous combustibles—that I could steal up to after the junks had stopped to kill and plunder us, apply a match, and, after lashing the rudder, cause it to float down with the stream right amongst the junks and set them on fire.”

“Splendid idea!” cried Uncle Jeff, clapping his hands.

“You like that, then?” said Stan, brightening up.

“I think the idea would be glorious. Deadly in the extreme to the enemy, but—”

“Oh uncle! don’t say but,” cried the lad, growing crestfallen again.

“Very well, my boy; I will not if you do not wish it. All the same, however, there’s a defect in it that would be fatal.”

“What’s that?” said the boy rather dismally.

“The Chinese are very weak-minded, but they’re not idiots.”

“No—of course not; but tell me what you mean.”

“Pooh! Can’t you see for yourself? The enemy would see that the fire-boat was coming, and of course they’d either heave anchor or cast their cables and slip away, if they didn’t send your fire-boat to the bottom with a shot from one of their swivel-guns. Try again.”

“Oh, it’s of no use to try, uncle.”

“Yes, it is. You’ve got gumption enough to make a pot without a hole in the bottom. You’re last idea is manageable; the kite-flying was not. Now then, you’ve got a better idea than that up your sleeve or in that noddle of yours, I’m sure.—Hasn’t he, Blunt?”

“Yes—a far better one.”

“I thought so.—Now then, boy, let’s have it.”

Stan stood looking gloomy and silent.

“Well, why don’t you go on?” said Uncle Jeff.

“Because I feel as if you are laughing at me for trying to invent something.”

“I am not, Stan—honour bright!” cried Uncle Jeff. “But even if I was laughing, what right have you to kick against it? Every inventor gets laughed at if he brings out something new, and then stupid people who grinned because they had never seen anything like it before are the first to praise. There! out with it, Stan; the third shot must be a good one.”

The gloom passed off the lad’s countenance, and he laid bare his idea of contriving a kind of torpedo to sink off the wharf and connect by means of a wire with an electric battery in the office, ready for firing as soon as one of the junks was well over it.

“Ah! that sounds better,” cried Uncle Jeff eagerly; “but could it be done?”

“Oh yes,” said Blunt. “I think the idea is capital.”

“So do I,” said Uncle Jeff; “but there’s an old proverb about the engineer being hoist with his own petard, and however willing I might be to blow up a junk full of murderous pirates, I shouldn’t like to go up with them.”

“Oh, that would be easy enough, uncle,” said Stan. “We should have to fill a big, perfectly waterproof canister with powder or some other combustible, make a hole in the side or top, and pass a copper wire through so that it is right in the powder, then solder up the hole, and after the canister has been sunk, bring the wire ashore ready.”

“Yes, and what then? I must confess that I know nothing about electricity.”

“I’ll tell you,” said Stan. “You fetch the copper wire ashore and bring it in, say, through that window. There! like this piece of string,” continued the lad, illustrating his plans with a string-box which he took from the office table, and after drawing out a sufficiency of the twine, he dropped the string-box outside the window. “Now, uncle,” he said, “that thing represents the canister of blasting-powder, and the string is the wire. You see, I shut down the window to hold the wire fast, and bring the end here on to the office table.”

“I see,” said Uncle Jeff; “but what next?”

“I’ll show you directly,” continued Stan, with his forehead puckered up in lines as if it were a mental Clapham Junction. “Now then, this stationery-case is my battery of cells, each charged with acid and stuff.”

“We don’t want to put a dangerous battery on Mr Blunt’s table to blow him up,” said Uncle Jeff. “He’s too useful.”

“Of course he is, uncle; but we couldn’t blow him up, because the battery isn’t dangerous.”

“Then what’s the good of it?”

“Ah! you don’t see yet; you will directly,” cried the boy. “There’s no danger at all till it is connected with the wire; and the wire, you know, is connected with the canister of explosive, uncle. And don’t you see that it will be sunk right away there off the wharf? When we connect the wire with the battery, it is not that which goes off, but the powder in the canister under the junk.”

“Oh, I see!” said Uncle Jeff. “Good; but when it is connected what does it do?”

“Sends a current of electricity along the wire.”

“Of course; I do understand that. Sends an electric spark through the powder and blows it up.”

“That’s right, uncle; only, instead of sending a spark along the wire, it sends a current to the end of the wire, and that end begins to glow till it turns white-hot. But long before that it has set the powder off, and if all goes right we should have a great junk blown all to pieces.”

“Bravo!” cried Uncle Jeff. “Three cheers for our inventor, Blunt!”

“Nonsense, uncle! I didn’t invent that. It’s only what one has read in books on electricity. Now you can see, of course, that there is no danger at the battery end of the wire.”

“If you tell me there is no danger, Stan, of course I am bound to believe it; but I don’t quite see why the wire should not carry us the message of the blow-up, and blow us up into the bargain.”

“Ah! but that would be outside the bargain, uncle,” said Stan, laughing. “It would be a good bargain for us.”

“And a horribly bad one for the Chinamen,” said Uncle Jeff.—“Look here, Blunt, this seems to be quite feasible.”

“Quite,” was the reply. “There is only one risk in it that I see.”

“And that is—”

“Making a mistake: some one connecting the wire at the wrong time for the friendly junk instead of an enemy. It wouldn’t do to blow up Mao or old Wing.”

“No, uncle,” said Stan quietly; “and it wouldn’t do to take down rifles and shoot either of them. There would be no danger so long as we took care of the electric battery; nothing else would fire the canister.”

“All right,” cried Uncle Jeff in his cheeriest way. “Then the next thing to be done is to get so many tins.”

“They ought to be copper,” said Stan.

“Very well, then, coppers—ready to ‘sky,’ Stan—eh? You remember skying the copper—the old charwoman putting the gunpowder in the copper flue, as she said, to ‘burn up by degrees’?”

“Yes, I remember,” said Stan, laughing; “and when it had exploded she said, ‘Where is the powder blue?’”

“Exactly. The result of meddling with explosives which she did not understand. I don’t understand these things, so I feel nervous about handling them; but with the proviso that you two are careful, I shall send an order for all the materials you want, so that we shall have so many mines ready for war-junks which come to meddle with us. But it must take time.”

“Yes,” said Blunt, “it will take some months, for everything will have to come from England, I expect. But I honestly believe that it will be long before the enemy get over the defeat they have had, and meanwhile I feel quite happy, for you have brought me four times as large a supply of cartridges as we had before, and yourself as reinforcement. Besides, our men are all veterans now, ready for the savage brutes if they do venture to come.”

“Well, the longer they keep off the better,” said Uncle Jeff, “for you will not be out of hospital for a month, Blunt.”

“What!” cried the manager fiercely. “Let them come, and they’d find me ready for action now.”

Uncle Jeff glanced at him and shook his head.

“But I am, I tell you,” cried Blunt excitedly. “My eyes are clear, and my hand is pretty steady. I could manage a rifle now as well as when I practised at a mark.—What do you say, Stan? Don’t you think I could fight?”

“I believe you’d try.”

“Try: yes. I want to pay off old scores.”

“Ah, well!” said Uncle Jeff, “we have no need to fidget about that. Wait till the wretches come and then we’ll see.”

Chapter Thirty Five.

“Quite Safe Till Dawn.”

“It seems rather absurd for us to settle down to talk about making what people call infernal machines, Stan,” said Uncle Jeff, and he pointed through the open window of the office to the scene being enacted on the wharf, with a lovely background of river, cultivated ground covered with corn, rice, and fruit-trees, and beyond these hill and mountain of every shade of delicious blue. “Why, everything looks as peaceful as can be. Look at those trading-craft with the stores they are bringing in, and the village boats piled up with fruit, vegetables, and grain. Hullo! What’s that next one?”

“Oh, that’s the one that brings milk and eggs, poultry and little pigs,” said Stan, smiling. “We call it the Dairy.”

“I really cannot realise the horrors you talked about, Stan, and in the midst of such a beautiful scene of peace and content I can’t talk about torpedoes. Here, I want some of those bright golden bananas from that boat.”

Stan’s forehead puckered up again, and he did not even glance at the boat with golden bananas, oranges, and scarlet tomatoes.

“But you wouldn’t say it was absurd to talk about umbrellas because we’d had three or four lovely days, uncle. Storms are sure to come.”

“Snubbed!” exclaimed Uncle Jeff.

“Uncle!”

“Well, I am, Stan—regularly snubbed; and I deserve it, boy. Never mind your umbrella simile; let’s have a better one. Suppose we say it’s foolish to build a house on the slope of a volcano because the mountain has been quiet for a few years. That’s better. Yes, it would be foolish to settle down in the belief of there being peace when that lady of the doves doesn’t seem to be indigenous to Chinese soil. We’ll see about the torpedoes at once, Stan; but let us moderate our transports, and begin with a couple. They’ll be easier to manage, and we might find that we could improve upon them.”

“Yes, that is most likely, uncle,” said Stan. “Let it be two, then.”

“Take a sheet of paper, and we’ll make out a list of the things we want sent out.”

“Yes, uncle,” said the lad eagerly; and he took a big sheet of ruled foolscap, dipped a pen, and sat ready to take down his uncle’s words.

But none came, for Uncle Jeff was filling a pipe now and looking thoughtfully before him in silence.

“It seems to me,” he said at last, “that—Hullo, Blunt! We’re jotting down some notions for our torpedoes.”

“You haven’t any ready, I suppose?”

“Ready?” said Uncle Jeff, staring. “Of course not.”

“Then they’ll be of no use to us this time.”

“Is anything the matter, Mr Blunt?” said Stan, whose late experiences had made him ready to take alarm.

“Yes, Lynn; a tea-grower from up-country has come down to warn me that some junks have been prepared, filled with men, and are coming down the river again.”

“A false alarm, perhaps.”

“No; I have too much faith in my informant, one of those with whom I have done most business since I have been here. He tells me that he had a hint that the pirates were on the way again so as to have revenge for their late defeat, and he came across country to warn me.”

“Then we can’t be ready for them this time, Stan,” said Uncle Jeff. “Never mind; put your paper away, and we’ll prepare for our visitors. We’ll take it out again and finish it when they have gone.”

The evil news was unexpected; there had been no warning giving time for preparation, and upon further inquiry it proved that the enemy were not coming slowly down the river, plundering villages on their way, but were making straight for the hong, bent upon revenge.

Every one there felt this, and knowing full well the mercilessness of the foe, all set to work in desperate earnest. There was no time for building up the outwork of chests and bales, but Stan declared that to be of no consequence, for all it did on the last occasion was to delay the enemy for a while, and when they did make a rush it did more harm than good, as it provided shelter for the attacking party, close up to the warehouse, from which they could assail in security, as well as supplying a platform from which to hurl the stink-pots.

“But it must have been a splendid place from which to fire,” said Uncle Jeff.

“Yes, uncle; but it was horrible when the assault came, and I was in doubt as to whether we could all get in and close up the two doors.”

“Oh yes, let it go,” said Blunt glumly. “I hated the place. Didn’t I get shot down there? Don’t speak up for it, Mr Lynn. We can barricade all the lower windows and the doors, and be all shut in here safely before the enemy can land, while all our fighting can be done from the first floor, quite out of reach of their spears.”

“I give up,” said Uncle Jeff; and he worked hard with the rest in securing all the lower windows, and holding planks for the Chinese carpenters to screw up, before wedging up the windows with a lining of tea-chests.

The doors were blocked up as on the previous occasion; water-casks were got on to the upper floor, as well as placed in the lower, and an ample supply of the fire-quenching element brimmed them, as well as every bucket that could be obtained.

There was plenty of time for this, the labour that would have been bestowed upon the outwork being utilised here in strengthening the keep, as Uncle Jeff called it, and making it as secure as it was possible to be.

There was a curious look in Blunt’s eyes as he opened the cartridge-boxes and placed a couple of them on tables and chests in the lower floor, as far apart as he could to be handy.

“I haven’t forgotten my dreamy fancy about the stink-pots rolling down the stairs, Lynn,” he said. “If one should come and by any strange accident fire one box, I’m not going to have that set off the rest.”

“But suppose a burning pot did happen to fall into an open chest of cartridges,” said Stan, “what would happen?”

“I never had the ill-fortune to be by when such an event occurred,” said Blunt rather sarcastically, “but you may depend upon it something would.”

“Well, I know that,” cried Stan; “but what? Cartridges wouldn’t go off like so much loose powder.”

“Of course not.”

“What I want to know is, would they go off one at a time?”

“There’s only one way of knowing for certain, Lynn: stand by and watch.”

“But the cartridges couldn’t do much mischief unless one stood opposite to the bullet-ends.”

“I shouldn’t like to try, my lad. It seems to me that, according to how the cartridges are packed, one would have to undergo the fusillade of what would seem like so many tiny guns, each loaded with a conical bullet; and I think we shall spare no pains to keep fire away.”

“How are you getting on here?” said Uncle Jeff, coming up, wiping his wet brow.

“Oh, pretty well, sir,” replied Blunt. “I have been arranging the other cases ready for supplying the men’s bandoliers when empty, and your nephew and I have been discussing what would be the consequences if a fire-pot came down into an open case.”

“Never mind discussions now,” said Uncle Jeff. “I want to know if there’s anything more that I can do to strengthen the upper works.”

“I’ll come round with you now,” said Blunt.

“Come along, then.—Come too, Stan, my lad.—But let us have a word with the lookout man.”

They passed out through the nearest doorway to hail the watch, which once more proved to be Wing, who this time was keenly on the alert, and ready to announce that the enemy were not yet in sight.

“What a change!” said Uncle Jeff as he paused upon the wharf to look round. The scene was the same as he had gazed upon when seated at the table with Stan making plans; but the river was deserted, every boat being hurried away in panic as soon as the coming danger was known.

The little party turned in again, noting that the planks and chests for screwing up and barricading the door through which they passed were ready for use as soon as the necessity came. The other door had already been closed up, after the last window.

A visit then to the upper floor showed everything in readiness for receiving the attack, and nothing was left but to wait; while, the last shades of evening showing no sign of the approaching enemy, it was concluded that no attack need be expected till morning.

“They are bound to be some hours coming down after being sighted,” said Blunt.

“Of course, with the river winding as it does; but we’ll be ready all the same. I say, though, Blunt, is there any possibility of an attack being made from the shore?”

“I don’t think so,” was the reply; “but we’ll be prepared all the same, every one sleeping with his arms by his side. But it would mean a tremendous march along dikes and through swampy paddy-fields. No, I do not think it is likely. The enemy are boatmen, and do not care to tramp.”

“Then you can feel safe for some hours,” said Uncle Jeff.

“Yes, quite safe till dawn.”

“Then I vote for every one getting as good a sleep as possible before then, so that we may be in good fighting trim by the morning.”

“Sleep, uncle!” cried Stan. “Who could possibly sleep at a time like this?”

“I could, and will if I have the chance. I want steady hands for aiming to-morrow.”

“You had better sleep, sir,” said Blunt. “Lynn here and I will divide the watch between us.”

“No,” said Uncle Jeff; “I don’t mean to be left out in the cold. I shall divide the watch, taking one-third. You’re weak, Blunt, so you and Stan go and lie down. In three hours I’ll wake Stan, and he shall have his three hours’ watch and then come and rouse you. Then you ought to be fresher and stronger. There! no arguing; I’m going to be master over this. You send all the fellows off but two to keep watch with me, and do so at once.”

Uncle Jeff’s tones endorsed his words, being masterful in the extreme. Very shortly after the great building was silent as could be, and the only sounds that broke the night were the cries of distant wild birds, the splashings of feeding fish, and the steady tramp of the chief watcher. His big burly figure loomed up as he walked to and fro along the paved wharf, his two companions preferring to pass their time whispering together, straining their eyes for any dark, shadowy vessel that might come stealing down the river, the subject of their discussion being the desperate fight through which they had gone so short a time before, while they wondered what would have happened by that time the next night.

The three hours passed away, and to the minute Uncle Jeff sent his companions to rouse Stan and the two men who were to take their places.

Three more hours passed, and in turn Stan sent one man to rouse up the two next sentries and went himself to awaken Blunt.

“Yes, Lynn; all right. Hah! I’ve had such a sleep. What of the night?”

“All calm and still. It’s getting misty now, though, and a bit chilly.”

“That means a greatcoat for this poor weak invalid. There! turn in and have another sleep till breakfast-time.”

Stan did not stop to enter into any discussion, but the moment he had seen the manager take his place with his followers he threw himself upon the rough couch so lately vacated, and dropped asleep at once.

The next minute he was awake again, or so it seemed to him, to find Blunt’s hand upon his arm.

“Up with you,” he said, “and help to rouse the rest. Every man is to go to his station without a sound.”

“Are the enemy upon us, then?”

“No,” said Blunt shortly. “You said it was misty, and that has gone on, till the river is covered by a white fog so dense that it looks as if you could cut it. You can see nothing half-a-dozen yards away, and I was wondering whether it would disperse when the sun rose, when Wing came close up behind me. ‘See, misteh?’ he whispered, and he pointed down the river into the thick white fog. ‘No,’ I said. ‘What is it?’ He pointed again down-stream, and at that moment the mist, which floated like smoke on the surface of the water, lifted a little. Lynn, I felt stunned, for there were six junks in sight.”

“So close?” whispered Stan.

“Yes; and the next minute the mist shut in again and they were gone as silently as they had come.”

“But they had seen the hong?”

“No, I think not, or they would have set to and used their sweeps. We must wait now till they begin to come back, unless we are so lucky that they run aground on the other side. Quick! I’m going back to the wharf.”

Stan made no reply, but hurried to where Uncle Jeff was sleeping soundly. He sprang up at a touch.

“Come?” he said sharply.

“Yes. I’m going to rouse up the others. Blunt wants you on the wharf.”

So well had the plans been made that in an incredibly short space of time the whole of the defenders had gathered in silence, to find that the place was completely shut in by the thick white mist, neither warehouse nor river being visible, even those who were two yards distant being quite invisible to their friends.

Chapter Thirty Six.

“All in to begin.”

With so great a danger at hand not a bound was made, every man, weapon in hand, listening and waiting for the next phase of the pirates’ approach; while many a heart that had sunk low in the presence of the peril began to beat less heavily as the minutes glided on, with the veil of mist which hid them from their enemies growing thicker.

“Are we saved?” said Uncle Jeff at last in a whisper—“I don’t want to fight.”

“Nor do I, uncle,” whispered back Stan; “but it seems to be too good to be true.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Blunt from out of the mist close at hand—“the pirates going by?”

“Yes,” replied Uncle Jeff; “we’ve got off, haven’t we?”

“Till the fog clears away; and that will not be long. They won’t give us up. It’s only a question of time and their having to beat up against wind and stream. No,” he added, holding his hand up on high; “only against stream. I can feel the breeze rising, and that will carry off the fog before long.”

“Then you will not be disappointed of your savage desires, Stan,” said Uncle Jeff good-humouredly. “What a fellow you are to fight!”

“Oh! don’t try to make jokes now, uncle; it’s too horrible.”

“For the enemy, Stan, my lad; and I don’t pity them a bit. They have the means in their hands to escape all fighting by leaving us carefully alone; but they will come on these murdering expeditions, to let’s give them all the bullets we can.”

“Yes, here comes the breeze,” whispered Stan. “I can see the mist gliding by.”

“Yes, there it goes,” said Blunt, endorsing the lad’s words. “We shall be clear by sunrise.”

Quite half-an-hour passed before the air was much lighter, and Blunt ventured to give forth the hope that the enemy might have glided on so far down the river that they would be out of sight, when, almost before he had done speaking, the fog seemed to grow thinner, and directly after to turn to a deep orange, golden hue.

“Sun’s rising,” said Uncle Jeff. “I hope the junks are well out of sight. It will give us time for a good breakfast before they come back.”

“No breakfast,” said Stan bitterly, for he was thinking of hot coffee, and his appetite was suddenly damped by what he saw. For the lightening of the mist before the breeze meant that they were close to the edge of the moving bank of rolling mist-clouds, and as if the veil had been suddenly drawn aside, there were the horizontal rays of the sun shining right across the clustering men on the wharf and turning the grey fog-bank to one of gold. To their left the river was hidden, while to their right it was dazzlingly bright, with only a few golden wreaths floating here and there—a glorious scene, but having one of threatening horror behind; for close inshore, about half a mile down-stream, were the piratical junks with grapnels out, holding on to keep from being carried lower, two on the right bank, and four on the left; and as the crews caught sight of them when the mist glided off they set up a yell of savage exultation, and a busy scene ensued as some began to haul in their grapnels, some to hoist sail, while others thrust the long sweeps overboard, and the watchers saw them dip.

“Humph!” grunted Uncle Jeff in a low voice to his nephew; “it’s a long time since I was at school, Stan, but I am going to give an order that used to be very familiar to me in the old days.”

“What’s that, uncle?” said Stan wonderingly.

“All in to begin, my boy.”

“To be sure,” said Blunt grimly. “All in to begin it is; not that we need hurry, for it will be a full half-hour before they can get up here against the sharp current. We’ll have it all in—not to begin fighting, but breakfast. In with you, my lads,” he cried smartly; “breakfast.”

The defenders gave a cheer, and in less than five minutes the Chinese servants were handing round bread-cake, biscuits, and mugs of coffee to all, while the principals carried theirs out to take on the wharf and watch as well.

In a quarter of an hour Blunt gave orders to the carpenters, and the last open doorway was, being closed up, while the men rose from what all felt might be their last meal to take their places for the defence, the narrow slits at the windows between the closely packed chests and bales looking very ominous, the more so in their desertion, not the barrel of a rifle nor a glittering watchful eye being seen.

“All ready?” said Blunt as soon as he reached the upper floor, after seeing to the last strengthenings being given to the two doors.

A cheer was the answer, and he turned to Uncle Jeff.

“There’s plenty of time, sir,” he said. “Will you say a few encouraging words to the men?”

“I’d rather not,” replied Uncle Jeff. “I came up here to fight, not talk.”

“But it will encourage them, sir—put heart into them. It does not matter how few words so long as they are to the point.”

“Very well,” said Uncle Jeff, flushing, as he drew in a deep breath and filled out his chest.—“Just a word, my lads, all of you, English and Chinese, for we have to fight like brothers to-day.”

There was a hearty cheer, and Uncle Jeff seemed to be encouraged by this, and spoke out more firmly as he went on.

“There’s our duty before us,” he continued, “to kill or wound as many of these murderous savages as we can, for the sake of being left at peace to earn our livings like men.”

There was another cheer at this, and as it died out Uncle Jeff continued:

“Then all I have to say more to you is this, that we are going to share all dangers with you, and in return we ask you to behave like men.”

That was all, and the echo of the final words was drowned by a burst of applause and cries of “We will! We will!”

“Now,” shouted Blunt; “once more: no random shots. Every cartridge used ought to mean one enemy the less, every miss a mistake. Don’t fire, then, till you are sure.—Now then, coolies, you with knife, club, and bar will always be ready to come to the first window to help to beat down the enemy if they try to get in. When not wanted for that, half of you are to be ready to hurl back the stink-pots thrown in, and the others to keep to the buckets and dash out any fire that threatens to take hold. Now then, every man in his place.”

There was a rush, and Uncle Jeff, who was watching the coming junks, cocked his rifle.

It was like a clicking signal for every one to do the same, the sounds running strangely along the stack-encumbered floor.

Then all was silent till Blunt, who was once more taking the lead, his thin, sunken lineaments giving him a fiercely haggard aspect, spoke again.

“Here they come,” he said; “but no firing until the first men land. Save only for us,” he added in a low voice. “You, Mr Lynn—you, Lynn junior—will do as I do: keep our best marksmanship for the leaders and the men working and firing the guns.”

A low, growling whisper was the reply, and then all watched the coming ships with their grotesque heads and listened to the buzzing booming of the gongs.

“You gave them a severe lesson last time, Stan,” said Blunt after watching the manoeuvres of the enemy for a few minutes, not a swivel-gun nor jingal being fired as the junks were worked up in a double line close alongside of the wharf, where great hooks were thrown ashore, as well as from junk to junk. “They’re not going to waste time, but are coming on for a big assault all at once.”

“Yes, that’s it,” said Uncle Jeff calmly. “Well, we must shoot down their leaders, and if the rest come on they’ll have a hard job to get in at any of the windows.”

The gongs kept on their monotonous booming, while the watchers with bated breath noted that the previous losses had made no perceptible difference, the decks of the clumsy vessels being as thronged as ever, while more discipline was visible, parties of men working together under leaders, and with a wonderful absence of confusion.

“They mean mischief, uncle,” said Stan, who found it hard to bear the waiting, his young blood being full of excitement, and he was longing to begin.

“So do we, my boy,” said Uncle Jeff coolly; “more than they expect. I don’t want to brag, but I learnt to be a good shot, and I feel as if I can’t miss a man at this short distance. You feel the same, don’t you?”

“No, uncle; I feel my hands all of a shake, and as if I should miss every one I shot at.”

“Never mind. Fire away steadily when you begin, boy. As I said before, they are so close that it will not matter; if you miss one man you are sure to hit another.”

“But it does seem so murderous, uncle,” whispered Stan passionately.

“A mistake, boy: not murderous; it’s only justice. We are playing the parts of executioners to criminals.”

“Ah! I thought so,” said Blunt suddenly.

“Thought what?” cried Stan, who felt glad that the discussion was at an end.

“Look at that smoke rising out from the middle of every junk.”

“Stink-pots!” cried Stan excitedly.

“The fire to light them from,” was the reply.

Blunt was rights for in a few minutes scores of wreaths of black smoke were rising out of the little fleet, and as soon as the horrible missiles were well alight the sounding of the gongs stopped for a minute. Then three heavy bangs were given from the nearest boat, and directly after the decks were seen clear of the horrible smoke, and seemed to have suddenly begun to bristle with matchlock barrels, pitchforks, tridents, and spears, while every now and then a gleam of sunlight flashed from some heavy sword-blade.

The scene was weird and strange, for the rapid motion of the crowding crews set the smoke wreathing and floating here and there, while the soft morning breeze wafted the clouds, one minute revealing the deadly preparations, the next hiding all in smoke.

“A grand sight, Stan,” said Uncle Jeff.

“Yes, and such a lovely morning, too,” replied the lad.

“Ah! The more fools the enemy not to go peaceably to work or play, and enjoy it, instead of coming out a-murdering for the sake of a few bales of silk and chests of tea. They will have it, so it is not our fault. I’m in hopes, however, that they’ll soon have had enough of it when we give them a taste of what we can do. Hullo! Look out! Here they come.”

“Ah-h!” came like a gasp from Stan’s chest as he let the breath he had been holding escape.

For the enemy, in answer to six heavy booms from one gong, were now waiting motionless, as if they had been carefully drilled to perform some special evolution.

Then one loud resounding bang, and there was a yell from every junk.

Crash! went a dozen gongs then, with their beaters toiling furiously, and every junk was full of motion, their occupants pouring over the sides of the three first on to the wharf, while their places were taken by those in the three outer junks lashed to the inner, and a rush was made for the wharf as fast as room was made.

The yelling continued, but there was no firing as yet, all waiting till the whole of the pirate force was on shore ready.

Meanwhile the movements had augmented the thick smoke of the stink-pots, whose contents now began to burn fiercely, sparks and flashes of flame darting through the black fumes.

“Now,” cried Blunt suddenly after literally torturing those he commanded by his reticence; “leaders only.”

For several showily dressed, red-hatted men began to marshal their forces previous to a general advance, sending the stink-pot bearers to the front, ready for the orders for an advance, which seemed to be imminent. Blunt’s command was given just as the leaders began to wave their swords and the bearers of the barbaric hand-grenades took a step forward; but no sooner was the order to fire given than three rifles rang out, and three of the leaders went down; while, as directly after a ragged volley came from the warehouse loopholes, down went the other three leaders, in company with several of the stink-pot bearers, and with them all the carefully inculcated discipline. For with a savage yell of fury the whole body of men dashed across the wharf towards the barricaded windows, shaking their weapons, firing at random, and finally making way for the companions who were bearing the fuming earthenware vessels, eager to hurl them in at the first opening they could see.

They rushed on bravely enough, and in a few moments the whole building was resounding and echoing with the casting of the fuming pots, blows from bill-hook, hatchet, and spear, shots from jingals, and the shouts of the attacking force.

In reply a steady fire was kept up by the defenders at the most prominent of the attacking party, and Uncle Jeff’s remarks had plain illustration, for the enemy were literally so thick that where one was missed another was hit.

But it seemed to make very little difference. The pirates dashed up to the front, and then dividing, went off to right and left, to hurry yelling round to the back, meet there, and then rush back again, keeping up a fierce hacking and beating at door and barricaded window; firing too, and hurling the blazing pots wherever there seemed to be a chance to make one lodge, but always to find the lower openings invulnerable, and the grenades fall back among them in company with deadly shots.

In the midst of the wild excitement in front men were raised up on their fellows’ shoulders to get height before hurling in the pots, or to enable others to reach and make deadly thrusts with their spears through the loopholes.

Vain effort, for the bearers could not reach high enough, and after a few efforts the coolies within served back such of the stink-pots as reached the inside, and returned them on the heads of the spearmen and their bearers, sending the pirates back covered with the blazing material, and yelling with rage and pain, to follow the example set them by others at the former attack and plunge off the wharf into the river.

This assault was kept up for fully ten minutes, the steady resistance sprinkling the level wharf with wounded and dead; but though little impression was made, the enemy, in their fierce fury, seemed to be in nowise rebuffed. They kept on, their voices and gesticulations combining with their savage faces to enforce upon the defenders what must be their fate should they not succeed in beating their foemen back.

The pressure was kept up without effect till the supply of fiery grenades was exhausted, when, utterly baffled by the calm, steady fire, and discouraged by their utter inability to make an impression, the pirates made a sudden rush back to their vessels. In an instant the firing ceased, the defenders gladly accepting the respite to see to such injuries as had been inflicted, and to extinguish the fire at a couple of spots where the blazing resin was gradually creeping up one corner of the building at a place the coolies had been unable to reach it with the water without exposing themselves to the spears of the enemy.

The damage proved to be slight, and the personal injuries trifling in the extreme, merely calling for a little plastering and a bandage, both being dexterously applied by Wing, who seemed quite at home repairing damages, as Uncle Jeff termed it, the injured coming back to their posts quite as a matter of course, ready for the next onslaught if one came.

Stan clung to the hope that the enemy had learned enough and would now go. But he was soon undeceived, for freshly lit pots began to appear amidships of the junks, and as soon as they were blazing well they were raised, and the men came on again. Then the fight raged once more, being kept on for nearly half-an-hour without a sign of yielding on either side, while, fast growing weary, Stan began to look anxiously from one to the other of his two leaders.

It was not till he had glanced at them for the second time that Uncle Jeff caught his eye, and said quietly as he went on loading and firing:

“They’re tough, Stan, but they must give up soon, for they are losing men fast.”

“But what about us, uncle?”

“Eh? Oh, we’re all right, my lad. Ah! fire at those two mandarin-like fellows who are hounding the men on.”