“You’ve not played a bad game,” he said, “Mr Parget of the C.I.D.”
Parget lay still now with closed eyes, breathing hard.
“You might have won,” said Hanson, “or again you might not, for I had my doubts about you. Anyhow, our friends have pitched the board over, and it can’t be played out. I bear no malice. We can’t take you with us with that broken leg, and I don’t like to leave you to the natives. Better put you to sleep, eh?”
Parget nodded his head twice. There was blood on his lower lip, as he bit hard on it.
“Keep your eyes shut,” said Hanson. He took his revolver from his pocket and shot the man through the head. The crash of a falling floor drowned the sound of the shot. A volley of sparks flew skyward.
Hanson rejoined Sir John. “Only one man there, and he’s dead—Pentwin. We’d better get together, go round to the back and make a dash for it. We might be able to get through.”
A few minutes before, this might have been done, but it was too late now. The fire had given the signal, and the whole place was surrounded. Before Hanson and Sir John could get their men together, there was one loud yell and then an answering roar of voices, as from all sides out of the dark of the trees the natives poured in upon the white men.
Some of the natives had antiquated firearms, but the greater number were armed with knives and spears. They were without discipline; they fired almost at random, and in consequence native killed native. Rotten barrels burst at the first shot. But numbers prevailed; a few revolvers could do little against this great tide of maddened humanity.