“An Englishman wouldn’t have thought of that,” continued Blunt as he rose from his knee and let the butt of his rifle rest upon the floor, while all watched the cunning of the escaped spy, who was now lying down in the boat, holding the sheet of the sail with his left hand, and the steering-oar with his right, nothing of him being visible but the fingers which grasped the oar.
“Now then,” said Blunt sternly, “we have settled nothing. What is it to be, Mr Lynn? You are the governor’s son: is it to be run for our lives like cowards and, if we escape, face the principals with the best tale we can tell, or fight?”
“If we defend the place and are not able to beat them off, I suppose they will burn the hong and us in it?”
“Most likely,” said Blunt savagely; “but some of them will not live to see the flames rising. I’m afraid you don’t want to fight, Mr Lynn.”
“I don’t,” said Stan frankly. “The idea of shedding a fellow-creature’s blood is horrible.”
“Yes, of course,” said Blunt, with something like a sneer. “You ought to jump into one of the boats yonder and run down-stream as hard as you can to fetch help if the warehouse is to be saved.”
Yes, that would be grand. I could have a boat?
“Oh yes, you can have a boat.”
“Wing get boat, Wing hoise sail, stee’ boat beautifully.”
“I could bring back a lot of armed men to your assistance,” said Stan eagerly.