Stanley caught a glimpse of the figure too, and rushed to the window, just in time to see the crowd in motion and the luckless, already wounded Chinaman come heavily down among his friends.
“Will they try again, father?” whispered Stan, as if in fear of his words being heard through the broken window.
“Unless help comes,” was the reply, given in a tone which seemed to Stanley to suggest that the enemy would be sure to return, and before long.
“But if they do try to raise the ladder again, Stan, my boy,” said Uncle Jeff cheerily, “why, you must show your skill with the pistol once more. Why, boy, I couldn’t have shot like that!”
“Jeff,” said Stan’s father hurriedly, “I can hear them busy below.”
“Trying to get up? Well, they have got their work cut out. But, hullo! what’s that? Smashing up the office furniture.”
“Yes; that’s it, uncle. Listen; you can hear it quite plainly.”
“Poor, child-like beggars!” said Uncle Jeff contemptuously. “How I should like to have the lot trapped by a company of foot, and then see them thoroughly caned like schoolboys! Yes, they are smashing things up pretty well. Bad job, Oliver, for we shall have to furnish the whole office again, and rebuild it, too, with the rest of the place.”
“Oh, not so bad as that, Jeff!” said Stanley’s father.
“Yes, my lad; you may make up your mind for the worst. Don’t you grasp why they are breaking up the things?”