“No gettee big junk boat,” cried Wing excitedly. “Capen velly muchee flight. Pull up anky. Lun away. Misteh Blunt lookee.”
The manager glanced sharply at the window, and, true enough, there was the junk with all sail set, gliding down the river, and now a quarter of a mile away.
“Hah!” ejaculated the manager, giving one foot an angry stamp. “That settles one plan. No; we could collect some small boats if we had time. But the other course is to barricade the place, leaving loopholes, and fight to the last. We might beat them off. Now, I am manager here, and responsible for everything, but I feel that I have no right to call upon any man to risk his life against these murderous wretches. But I should like to hear Mr Lynn’s opinion.—This place is the property of your uncle and father, sir, and if we give it up without striking a blow, by to-morrow morning the valuable store of tea and silk, with the building, will be only a heap of ashes. What is your opinion about the matter, Mr Lynn?”
“It seems very horrible,” said Stan, with something like a shudder.
“Very, sir,” replied Blunt rather sarcastically.
“If we escape in boats we shall save all our lives.”
“Perhaps,” said Blunt bitterly. “Likely enough, though, we shall be pursued by half-a-dozen junks or so, and shot down or sunk before we could reach the banks; while if we took refuge ashore—”
“Pilate lun afteh evelybody, choppee head off.”
“Most probably,” said the manager, smiling.—“Now, Mr Lynn, you hear the state of affairs.”
“Yes,” said Stan, speaking with a slight quiver in his voice; “but I don’t like to give my opinion. There was, as you know, an attack made upon our place, and my father and uncle fought hard to save it, even when the enemy set it on fire. They held out—”