“Yes,” said Wing, shaking his fists in the air. “Baddee man, got blue malk on aim. Come spy, see how muchee tea, silk in go-down. Lun away now tell pilate. Misteh Blunt no askee Wing whetheh new man good man. Wing su’e spy pilate come to see.”
“Yes; I made a mistake there,” said Blunt bitterly; and as Stan watched the escaped man and saw him lay down his oar and hoist a matting sail, which filled at once and sent the boat gliding away up-stream, he suddenly became aware of the fact that Blunt had disappeared.
But the next minute he was back with a rifle in his hand, busily thrusting in a cartridge.
“Are you going to shoot him?” said Stan huskily as he saw the manager drop on one knee, lay the rifle-barrel across the window-sill, and take aim.
“If I can,” said the manager gruffly. “Why not?”
“It seems so cold-blooded: an unarmed man.”
“It may mean our lives or his, sir.”
“Yes, but—”
“Very well,” said the manager roughly; “but we needn’t argue the point. Look there at the man’s artfulness. Or rather, don’t look, for you can’t. I shouldn’t hit him if I tried. It takes a good shot to hit so small a mark as a hand in a fast-sailing boat—eh?”
“Yes,” said Stan, with a feeling of relief, for he felt a horror of seeing the poor wretch flying for his life shot down.