Chumbley rose to his feet and hastily tied a handkerchief round Hilton’s bleeding arm, the latter turning faint, and having to be helped into a Chinaman’s shop close at hand, the owner creeping from beneath his counter as the officers came in.
“Don’t stop for me,” said Hilton. “I’m all right.”
Chumbley hesitated for a moment, and then ran out to see that the Amok runner had been turned and was coming back at full speed, apparently full of vigour as ever, though he was streaming with blood and striking savagely at any one who came in his way.
The young officer saw two more victims fall, and then the Malay dashed down a sideway, making for the harbour now, affording an opportunity for a couple of shots to be sent after him, neither of which, however seemed to take effect.
On came the shouting crowd of pursuers, thirsting for the Malay’s blood, their object being to destroy him with as little compunction as they would a mad dog; but they did not gain upon him, and it was not until he had left several more inoffensive people weltering in their blood, that he turned at bay with his back to a blank wall, yelling, gnashing his teeth, and striking fiercely at his assailants with his dripping kris.
Suddenly, with a quick motion, one of the native policemen made a dart with the huge pitchfork he carried, his object being to strike the tines on either side of the madman and hold him pinned against the wall; but he was too quick, for he darted aside, and striking fiercely with his kris, started off afresh, but running more slowly now, for he was growing weak.
Still his thirst for blood was not assuaged, and running on he struck down a couple of Chinamen before he was again brought to bay in a kind of pool, where he stood glaring and displaying his teeth—a savage beast apparently, more than man—and ready to fight for his life to the very last.
For mad or no, the Amok runner knew that his fate was to be destroyed like some tiger. The native policemen’s instructions were to take him prisoner, so as to bring such offender to trial; but the majority of these fanatics are hunted to their death.
And it was so here, for as the police advanced cautiously, one of them falling back directly with a slight stab in his breast, a cleverly-thrown spear passed right through the savage’s neck, and he fell in the muddy pool.
It was a horrible sight to see the wild face rise again above the surface as its owner tried to struggle to his feet; but it was a vain effort. He was thrust under, pinned into the mud by half a dozen spears and bayonets, and a few bubbles rising to the surface, showed that the wretch’s career was at an end.