“They’ll never get past the chest wall,” panted Stan excitedly as Blunt came down from where he had been showing his men how to wedge the silk-bales together so as to stand tightly in the windows.
“Don’t you be too sure, my boy,” said Blunt. “They are regular fiends, these half-wild Chinamen, and they’ll come swarming over the wall like monkeys.”
“And I thought it so strong that nothing but fire would have any effect upon it,” said Stan gloomily.
“Fire would have hardly any effect upon it,” said Blunt, “unless there was a strong wind. The chests might burn, but the tea would only smoulder away.”
“I am disappointed,” said Stan, wrinkling up his forehead.
“Not a bit. I’m delighted with what you have done. It is strong, but a party of our sappers and miners would laugh at it all and say it was as weak as so much cobweb.”
“But I say, if they come, how will they attack?”
“Like civilised savages: pour in a hail of swivel-gun balls, scrap-iron, and pebbles from the junks till they land, and then come on with spears, pitchforks, tridents, and swords. Some of them will have long jingals—matchlocks, you know—and no doubt muskets and rifles as well. Then, too, I dare say they will bring plenty of stink-pots to throw—earthen jars full of burning pitch. We shall have a high old time of it, Stan, my lad, as soon as the fight begins.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Stan suddenly, with a look of dismay.
“Hullo!” cried Blunt, looking at his companion in a peculiar way. “Beginning to think it will be too much of a good thing?”