“Now lun!” cried Ching. “I showee way.”
“No!” shouted Barkins. “Draw swords and retreat slowly.”
We whipped out our weapons and turned to face the enemy, knowing full well that they would sweep over us at the first rush, while a feeling of rage ran through me, as in my despairing fit I determined to make the big fellow opposite to me feel one dig of English steel before he cut me down.
Then they were upon us with a rush, and I saw Ching dart in front and cleverly snatch one of the clumsy swords from the nearest man. The next moment he had whirled it up with both hands, when—
Boom—Crash!
There was the report of a heavy gun, whose concussion made the wooden houses on each side jar and quiver as it literally ran up the narrow street, and, to our astonishment, we saw the little mob turn on the instant and begin to run, showing us, instead of their fierce savage faces, so many black pigtails; the mandarin’s men, though, last.
“Hooray!” we yelled after them, and they ran the faster.
“Now, velly quick,” panted Ching. “Come back again soon.”
We uttered another shout, and hurried along the lane to the principal street, turned at right angles, and began to hurry along pretty rapidly now, Ching marching beside us with the big sword over his shoulder.
But the scare was only temporary, the tremendous report was not repeated, and before a minute had elapsed, our guide, who kept glancing back, cried—