“Is it much farther, Ching?” cried Barkins.
“Yes, velly long way,” he replied. “No’ got no levolvers?”
“No, I wish I had.”
“Fine levolver bull-dog in fancee shop, and plenty cahtlidge. Walkee fast.”
We were walking backwards as fast as we could, and the danger increased. In place of running right across now from shelter to shelter, the big swordsmen stopped from time to time on their way to flourish their weapons, yell, indulge in a kind of war-dance, and shout out words we did not understand.
“What do they say, Ching?” asked Smith.
“Say chop all in lit’ small piece dilectly.”
“Look here,” cried Barkins, as the demonstrations increased, and the wretches now began to gather on each side of the street as if threatening a rush, “let’s stop and have a shot at ’em.”
“No, no,” cried Ching, “won’t go off blang.”
“Never mind, we’ll pretend it will. Halt!”