“Fire?” cried Stanley excitedly.
“Right, my lad. They’re going to burn us out.”
Stanley’s father stamped heavily upon the floor in the impotent rage he felt.
“What’s to be done, Jeff?” he said. “They’ll beat us now.”
“Fire for fire, brother Oliver,” said Uncle Jeff through his teeth.—“Here, Stan, my lad, don’t you begin thinking that your uncle is a bloodthirsty wretch, because all he asks for here is to be let alone to make his living and a bit to spare.—Do you hear, sir?”
“Yes, uncle,” said Stan, who had more ears for the sounds below than for his uncle’s words.
“That’s right, then. The Chinese can run away if they like, but if they don’t they must take their chance of getting bullets through them.—Now, Oliver, old lad, set the example. We can’t stand here to be roasted to death, for it would be very unpleasant; so shoot as many of the wretches as you can.—And you, Stan, my boy, help him. Ah, look out! They’re raising the ladder again.”
Both Stan and his father saw the peril at the same moment, and they rushed forward, Stan following his father’s example and beating out a pane of glass with the butt of his revolver so as to make room to fire.
They were invisible to the attacking party, but the noise made by the falling glass directed the attention of the mob to their presence, and they were saluted by a savage burst of yelling and a shower of missiles, which did no more harm than to destroy a pane or two of glass.
It was different with the fire the enemy drew: for, feeling that they were regularly fighting for their lives, and growing desperate, Stan and his father watched the moving ladder, whose end came with a sharp rap against the sill of the window. As soon as the upper part was darkened by the figure of a man, Oliver Lynn fired, there was a yell, and the man stood fast. But another rushed up to his support, and this time Stanley fired. The new arrival let go his hold of the ladder-sides, jerked himself back, and fell headlong on to the people watching his progress.